


Attraction

by CatalenaMara



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 78,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an AU Tarsus, rescue never came. In the throes of pon farr, Spock hires a prostitute. But what Jim is concealing about his present life will change Spock in ways he cannot imagine.<br/>Co-Author:  Danielle Stewart<br/>Originally published in 2006 in the print fanzine "Legends" # 4.<br/>My thanks to the editor Dovya Blacque for her excellent edit.<br/>Many thanks also to J S Cavalcante for her invaluable advise on Vulcan linguistics and to J S Cavalcante, T’Guess and Muriel Perun for their comments and suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spock of No World

The Leda moved closer to orbit, the black ship maneuvering precisely into position. Spock's hands were steady at the controls, even as Fever flared within his body. The restlessness, the urgency was eating him alive. Too soon. It had been less than two years since his last Time. He cursed his Vulcan heritage with fervor, and wished, as he had many times before, that his Human blood had predominated. Especially in this.

His hands continued the precise commands that established the Leda into orbit. One final instrument check assured him all was functioning properly. All subterfuge systems were switched off. The concealed cargo holds were empty; he had only one purpose for visiting this world; there was no need to endanger any of his work. He had traveled fast and light, and in any event, no one here would raise the question of his business—legal, or not.

The communicator crackled to life and a rough male voice announced, “Space Control Area 1335, hailing the Leda.”

“Acknowledged.” There was no visual image; he had pre-approved clearance. There was no need for a visual inspection; they wasted little money here on unnecessary frills, particularly those which might lead to inconvenient inspections. What the spaceport staff didn't see they needn't report. He had been here, many times, an obvious alien, and yet there were far stranger beings than he frequenting Loris Town. Though this world officially held to Pure Human thought, where there was money to be made, there were blind eyes to be turned.

“We have you cleared to dock at Loris Town Spaceport. We are transmitting control data now. Please set your automatic pilot to accept our command.”

His hands, still steady, touched the necessary controls. “Acknowledged, and complete.”

“Prepare for docking. We are locked on to your ship.” Ship's sensors confirmed that his ship was moving into planetfall course, heading toward the outer traces of atmosphere.

“Acknowledged. Leda out.”

He let himself relax back into his chair. His hands, now freed of necessary tasks, closed into tight fists; he watched without much interest as the knuckles turned white from the pressure. He shifted, trying to ease the pain of that other pressure; the pain in his testicles, the unassuaged ravening ache in his iron-hard penis. Soon. Soon.

The Leda slipped into atmosphere and began making its steep descent. He closed his eyes, feeling the effects of the changes in gravity on his biology, grateful that the way had been made smooth for him. His cousin Daniel had made all the arrangements, as he had done every Time before.

He recalled the terror of that first Time, when the danger of exposure, up until then only a theoretical fear, had suddenly become quite clear to him. Daniel, one of the few who knew everything about him, had chosen this place. But neither of them could have known if this would work, if he could satisfy the rut and still conceal that which would cost him his life. And not only his life, but the lives of his only surviving family.

They had taken pains to conceal his identity, erased every reference to this ship on every world on which it had docked, obliterated every possible connection Spock had to the Grayson Clan. They had always been careful; and yet, further out in the Fringe, they were known. If his secret had come out, the most likely—the best—possibility would have been his instant death. But if he had been arrested instead, been turned over to Terran authorities, his life would have been carefully assured—and equally certain, the arrest and execution of anyone who had concealed his existence.

Then Daniel had sent him here. Alone. And though in certain ways he had been alone since the death of every Vulcan in his Clan, he had always been in the proximity of Family, whether it was just Daniel, or his many other Human relatives. 

He remembered the difficulty of concealing his fear when he first met Rilka. Daniel and he had discussed different ways to handle this situation, and had come up with a possible solution. Rilka was then told of his specific needs, and since these desires were a common variation among Humans, she hadn't evidenced the faintest hint of surprise. Nor had she betrayed any surprise or consternation at the intensity of his cycle. Her House, exploiting the fascination Humans had for the forbidden, featured many alien beings to attract clientele. Additionally, she catered to many different alien species. All were welcome in the House of Flowers. It was true that they had never seen one of Spock's kind before, but species with rut cycles were not unknown. She had assured them of both discretion and complete satisfaction.

Rilka had met Spock personally at her door, something he knew was rarely done. She had led him to his chamber, already ready for his requirements, and finished the necessary preparations. Then Need had burned his fear and all his other concerns away. 

It had worked. And though his mind had cried out, had brushed against the scarring of that damaged place where his Bondmate had once existed, had sought but not found—he had survived. He had survived, with his secret intact. 

He had been back several times since then. He had had no idea how often his Time would come; it seemed to vary between two to three years, shockingly frequent for a Vulcan. But nothing was known of the needs of a hybrid. To his knowledge, he was the only one in existence. Sarek's ship had ventured far away from the confines of Vulcan space; to his knowledge, the contact between his father's people and the Grayson family had been the only contact ever made between the two species.

It was all pro forma now; merely the notification to Rilka, and the necessary landing fees, and of course a handsome payment to her, as well as the chosen Companions who would meet his need. Rilka would have everything arranged for him. She always did.

Settling back in his chair, he strapped in for landing, hands tight over the arms of the seat. Control. Control. Soon, Rilka's restraints would give him freedom, and he would know satisfaction, the quenching of the desperate need enflaming his body. And if it wasn't enough? If it was never enough? It was adequate, and that was all he required. Since the death of his Bondmate, he had never hoped for anything more.

The ship was drawn into a smooth landing, settling securely into a side bay at Loris Spaceport. Hands carefully steady, he performed the final systems check, then shut down and locked ship's controls. The exit hatch slid smoothly open, then closed behind him. The ship would be safe until his return; it was currently programmed to allow only him access.

The landing pad was streaked with burn marks and smelled strongly of ship's fuel and singed synthsteel. He found his gait had become unsteady; he drew in a deep breath, throat and lungs stinging from the chemical scent. He found steadier footing, though the flooring remained unchanged, and walked toward the landing agent, who was waiting for him, padd in hand. Fever flared; he felt its heat dance over his skin, like crackling electricity. He swallowed, fought against it, fought for control. 

He knew his face revealed nothing as he handed over his forged identification, along with a substantial bribe. The agent regarded him, his gaze bored, incurious. The agent barely glanced at his credentials, took a longer look at the money, then pressed Spock's ID against the padd, giving him authority to travel freely throughout Loris.

Loris was a restricted area; a free port open to any spacer with sufficient money, closed off from the rest of the world beyond. But he had no need to go anywhere else. All he needed was three days at Rilka's establishment; three days that he knew would be spent in a haze of need and fever and perhaps pleasure. Pleasure was not something he ever expected, but when it happened it was a welcome surprise. But it was unimportant, as long as Need was slaked.

The man waved him through and he entered the main building of the spaceport, stepping into the cavernous main room. It was dirty, cluttered, and crawling with Humans, a few Andorians, and a large contingent of Delemites. Singly or in pairs, aliens of a dozen species shoved and jostled against him. Thick odors from unwashed bodies of many species, spice perfume, and the dry scents of fabrics from several worlds filled his nostrils. An uncounted number of beings milled about or moved with purpose toward the many shops, service bays or exits that competed for space in the interior of the spaceport dome. 

Incurious, he found himself looking around. It was not possible that this time he would see another Vulcan. It was as always. No being here looked like him. None ever would. He was the only one of his kind in this part of space; he had not seen another Vulcan since the death of his Family and his Bondmate over eleven years earlier.

Nevertheless, he always looked for another of his kind. Perhaps, one day, some other Vulcans might venture out this far in space. But, after all these years, he found it highly unlikely.

He managed enough control to keep his walk steady. No one glanced his way for more than a second. Everyone in Loris Town kept a studied politeness, an averted gaze, unless deliberately looking for trouble. His long hair covered his ears, obscured his brows, made him look almost Human. The greenish cast of his skin could be concealed through cosmetics or drugs. Cosmetics were inconvenient, drugs were difficult to assimilate without illness, but he knew he needn't go to this trouble at this time. There were no official Terran ships in dock; there was no need for the spaceport authorities to pretend they enforced Pure Human regulations. There was no need for any aliens onplanet to go into hiding in case of a crackdown. 

He took care of the necessary bribes in short order, and took the first available groundcar. It was not an autocar, but had a human pilot, who insisted, with no encouragement on his part, on making lewd conversation about the prostitutes at Rilka's establishment. He sat quietly, most of his attention focused on the agonized ache between his legs, on how the motion of the aircar jolted through his genitals like a lance of fire; need and pain indistinguishable.

Mindlessly, he watched the garish lights of the bordellos slide by, the holosigns promising ultimate pleasures. Nothing but artifice and sham. And, since he himself no longer had the identity he had held from birth, since Spock cha'Sarek was no more, since what he still mindlessly sought was impossible to attain, he, too, was artifice and sham.

The groundcar came to an abrupt halt, crashing into another vehicle. The drivers leaped out, screaming curses and arguments. Ignoring them, he keyed in his payment and staggered slightly as he stepped out.

Multicolored lights from the House of Flowers washed over his face; music and voices blared from all corners of the street. He blinked, stunned by the sensory overload of the street around him. He drew in a deep breath. Control. Control. Soon.

He took an unsteady step forward, then gained strength and approached the door. A dark-skinned woman, dressed in a few artfully-placed strips of red leather, greeted him with a blinding smile and a warm welcome. He managed a mumbled greeting. Rilka's people were good. They always made him feel welcome, even though their words, like everything else, were part of what customers paid for.

She led him past a holo-wall that shifted from one sexual scene to another. Unlike other establishments, the scenes approached art, an erotic, ever-shifting dance of bodies, but subtly shaded, concealing as much as they revealed in each seductive movement.

An anonymous door, neatly camouflaged by the same wallpaper that covered the walls, awaited. She touched it open and stood aside.

Rilka was there, waiting for him. He knew that was a privilege few merited. Her calm face, carefully painted, appeared young in the dimness of the revealed corridor. Her black hair was done in its usual elaborate array, threaded through with jeweled sticks and tiny gossamer decorations. Some of her wealth glittered on her earlobes, around her neck, and threaded through one nostril. 

Rilka gave him a welcoming smile, then glanced at the woman who had brought him here. “Thank you, Nyta.” 

The woman inclined her head, then turned and walked away.

Rilka touched his arm, directing him away from the public rooms into this side corridor that, unlike most of the rest of the establishment, was cool and calm in pale green paint and scattered still holos of local scenery. The lights were dim; he was always grateful for this.

A few feet down the corridor, and they entered Rilka's private office. Her inner sanctum was cool, welcoming to his fevered skin. A few pieces of abstract art decorated one wall; another wall was composed entirely of a holographic image of a pastoral scene he knew existed nowhere on this world; expensive technology for anyone, a testament to Rilka's wealth. 

Rilka smiled. “Will you have a seat?”

“Thank you, no.” He remained standing, and tried to uncurl his fingers from where they had clenched into fists. His iron-hard erection probed at the fabric of his cape, screaming out its urgency; his skin felt as if it had been scraped raw, entering into a wholly new level of naked exposure.

Rilka still had her tiny brown cat. Spock managed to focus his gaze on the creature as it leaped to the top of an elaborate armoire. It gazed down at Spock with huge gold eyes. Rilka extended her hand, and the creature joined her, jumping to her shoulder then settling down, wrapping its tail around her neck. The animal's round eyes continued to regard Spock calmly. 

He shuddered as another surge of need filled his hardened flesh to the edge of endurance. Rilka's eyes reflected sympathy.

“Your room is ready,” Rilka said, her pleasing contralto voice warm, reassuring, inviting trust. And he could trust her. She thought she knew his secrets. That was, of course, not accurate.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head. He could still Control. There was that, at least. Though it had been many years since Control or Concealment had mattered to anyone but him.

She indicated the security screens, dozens of them filling an entire wall. One displayed the main public room, a room he'd been in only once, on his first visit nearly nine years ago, when he had first been confronted by the reality of facing his biology without the comfort of his Bondmate. He had been here four times since then, the erratic nature of his human blood triggering Vulcan hormones far more often than a fullblooded Vulcan would have to endure. 

Rilka touched a button and a blank screen sprang to life. His cock pulsed as he recognized Seela. She had been one of his Companions the last time. He remembered the feel of the masses of her red hair against his skin as she had bent her head to take his throbbing erection into her skilled mouth. That had been toward the end of his last Time, when he was able to remember something of an encounter. Her energy had been good. She had brought him pleasure, not pain.

He nodded in agreement, and quickly approved an ebony-skinned human male as thin as he, and taller, and a small human female with yellow hair.

He turned down the offer of an Andorian woman. He had never accepted any but Humans; he knew them to be safe. What secrets other races possessed he would not explore, at least not sexually. Additionally, the House of Flowers generally charged three times as much for sex with a non-human. He had neither the funds nor the interest.

“Will three be sufficient? Would you like alternates?”

“Another alternate, perhaps.” She bent over her computer, and in the second before another image flashed on the screen, he glanced back at the image of the public room—and froze.

A human male was standing directly in front of the security camera, talking to someone he couldn't see. For an instant the camera displayed an astonishing face, ordinary in its parts, extraordinary in its whole. Beautiful. The man seemed to shine, to radiate something... something he could not define. Eyes, seemingly composed of many colors, appeared to look directly at his; the animated expression spoke to him. The man smiled, a smile that seemed entirely to belong to him, an unmet stranger. 

His cock wept with need.

Dangerous. This is dangerous, part of his mind insisted on saying. But Fever spoke, and his voice followed, “That one. First.”

Rilka raised her brows. “He's retired from the Profession. He's my general manager.”

“He's new since the last time I was here.” His voice had roughened; his control was fading fast, and yet he persisted in conversation. Dangerous. A moment longer, and his mind might vanish.

He might rape this woman. 

And rape was the lesser of the dangers he courted.

Rilka was watching him carefully. “Yes. He only worked in the Profession here for a short time. He has other talents.” A certain amount of pride showed in her face as she glanced at the monitor. “Prior to joining me, he had been one of the Administrator's Favorites.”

And now he is one of Kodos' discards, you mean. He did not express that thought. Even here, in Loris, kept separated from the rest of Tarsus by security walls, speaking ill of the Administrator warranted a death sentence. He turned his gaze back to the monitor. “I wish him.”

“It is not usual.”

His voice shaking, Spock named a fee five times his usual price. It would take him many months to earn enough to repay his cousin. Stealing another glance at the face in the monitor, he thought, it will be worth it.

Rilka regarded him without expression for a moment longer, than touched a control on her desk. “Jim. Can you join me in my office?” 

Spock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but he was aware when she moved to stand directly in front of him. “It will be his choice,” she said gently. “Come. Let us go to your room. You can be ready for him. Or Seela, if he chooses otherwise.”

He gasped out an agreement, now barely able to speak. But his mind repeated the word, Jim, Jim.

*****

The room Rilka took him to was plain, walls painted a calm cream. There were no erotic objets de art, no elaborate sexual paintings. A table. Two chairs. A plain bed. Rings in the wall behind it.

He did not require any of the elaborate fantasy decor available in the other suites in this brothel. He had tried one of these rooms early on, hoping that by using Human fantasy he could hasten the process. Daniel quite liked the Orion slave girl scenario, so he had borrowed his cousin's fantasy, and requested that suite the second time he was here. The room itself had been its own seraglio; luxurious draperies and cushions, elaborately carved low tables, dancing girls everywhere. He'd been surrounded by holographic human males having holographic sex with moaning, licentious green women. He had observed all this even as a succession of Human women, painted to resemble Orion women, impaled themselves on his needy cock; had tried to fuel his need with these Human fantasies, had tried to end the Fever sooner, quicker, faster.

To no avail. His Fever had lasted precisely as long as it had the time before, and the times since. He had given it up as a failed experiment and stayed with this plain room.

Spock removed his clothing and lay on his back on the bed. Contemplating his raging erection, he promised it relief. Soon. 

The bed was soft, comfortable, not too yielding. The manacles Rilka brought were lined with a deep soft material. He raised his arms up beside his head. She expertly attached the cuffs to his wrists and attached them to the rings in the wall behind the bed. He pulled, hard, then sighed and relaxed against the bed. His partners would be safe now. He would be safe now, safe from the danger of fulfilling the need that could never be satisfied.

“Please... soon...” he heard his voice whisper.

She touched his hand lightly. “A moment, only,” she promised, then vanished through the doorway.

His body insisted on thrusting into air; he wound his hands around the chains and gripped tight. Teeth gritted against the agony, he forced himself to count his breaths, which persisted in matching themselves to his fruitless thrusting. Fire. Fire everywhere, and the intense pressure in his genitals seemed enough to tear through his skin. 

An eternity of this torment. He fixed his gaze on the doorway. Soon. Please. Now.

The door opened. The man called Jim walked in.

Spock's gaze riveted on Jim's eyes. The man smiled an easy smile as he approached. Electricity and heat seared the air, leaping between them. Some still-rational part of his mind cautioned, Danger. But he was deaf to the warning. His cock, now a dark angry green, surged as it recognized that relief was almost here.

Jim was still wearing the clothing he'd worn when Spock had seen him on the monitor; not the clothing of a Companion, but rather the elaborate clothing of a wealthy man. Spock wanted that clothing gone. 

As if reading his mind, Jim stripped quickly and efficiently, placing his boots on the floor and his clothing on the table. His skin—a warm tan—seemed to glow against the room's neutral walls. Spock focused on the unaroused Human genitals, nestled in a bed of golden curls. He didn't need an aroused partner. But, oh, if he could have that, just once... Pain stabbed through his cock and he fought against the fantasy of having one who also desired him.

A searing green nearly obscured Spock's vision as Jim approached the bed. With quick expertise and an economy of motion, Jim straddled him. He cried out as cool Human fingers touched his titanium-hard penis, guiding him, snubbing him against the well-lubricated opening to the other man's body. And then—Jim slid down, engulfing his flesh in one smooth practiced movement.

Fever stole his mind. Flashes of intense pleasure radiated from his groin as that strong human body fucked and milked his cock with powerful upward and downward movements of his thighs, and with the clenching of the muscles of his buttocks. Spock could barely see through the haze of green heat nearly obscuring his vision, and yet he caught sudden glimpses of the other man, images as quick and indelible as those from a remembered dream. The cool human skin was composed of electricity. He could feel it crackle, cold fire, cool skin to slake his heat; such a contrast to the conflagration surrounding him. An aura of light danced around Jim's face, inviting Spock's hands to Touch. He pulled savagely against the restraints, needing to Touch. The restraints held him fast, and he keened in frustration even as the last remnants of rationality insisted that that need must be denied, must forever be denied. His hands clenched nails into his palms; his cock jerked and let loose its first flood of seed deep inside the Human's body.

He remained hard, as he would for many more hours. The Human paused briefly, and he saw a flash of surprise flash across Jim's face. Surely Rilka told you... And then rational thought vanished again as Jim rode him again, first in long luxurious strokes, then in short, hard, fast snaps of his hips, driving Spock's cock deep into the slick silk heat of his channel. Spock lost himself into the pain of the Time, into the brief ecstatic releases and the continued agony of the still-unrelieved pressure.

Dreams. Dreams. Heat, aching, pain, a tight tunnel constricting his hardness, thrusting, thrusting, relief. Sometimes seconds in duration. Sometimes minutes. Again. Repeat. Again. Some part of his brain, far away, kept count, and he knew when he had come six times. 12. 14. And finally, when it took him several minutes to find relief, he was able to open his eyes and see something beyond a green fever haze, able to see the tan/pink body of his companion lift off his depleted cock, and not feel his flesh instantly harden into more need.

He felt a warm cloth wash his genitals, and then another wet cloth cleanse the sweat from his fevered skin. The touch was gentle, kind. He smiled his gratitude and Jim, standing near his left shoulder, paused his task of washing Spock's face and neck, and smiled back.

“Thank you,” Spock whispered, his voice a dry croak. His hands still wanted to Touch; he could feel his fingers, still gripped around the chains, longing to let go, to Seek. He forced himself to speak. “Do you wish to retire? You could send in Seela, or one of the others?” He always had several Companions, to avoid the danger of desiring just one. But he did not wish Jim to leave, and his voice betrayed his need. 

This human was different. He wanted to keep this one with him a while longer. A tiny portion of his mind cried out a warning of the danger involved, and he buried its protest till it hid silent and unheeded in some recess of his mind.

“I can stay for awhile longer.”

“You must be sore.”

Jim smiled. “I know what I'm doing. And your needs are so...”

He hesitated, and Spock realized he was being diplomatic. “Brief?”

“Yes. I barely touch you, and you come. Yes, we've done it a number of times—”

“Fourteen.”

Jim laughed. “I wasn't counting. But all together,” he ran the cloth sensuously over Spock's upper chest, “they would make three—maybe four—good satisfying encounters for a human.”

“I envy you.” The words were out of his mouth before he even realized their reality.

Jim looked surprised. “You're doing what is natural for you.”

“Humans get great pleasure and enjoyment out of this act.”

Spock watched in fascination as a series of expressions chased themselves across the human's face. Surprise. Curiosity. And, oddly, understanding. “You do not get any enjoyment from sex?”

“As I'm sure you noticed, I am barely rational during this time. There is pleasure, yes, but I do not remember it very well, and what I am conscious of is relief when it is over.” He started to admit he was half-human, but remembered just in time that it would be dangerous anywhere in Terran space to share that information with a stranger. He changed his words to, “I should say, instead of envy, I am curious as to what it is like for Humans. But I cannot experience this. We are what we are.”

“Can I do something to make it better for you? I'm sorry—I would have asked Seela or Robert for their advice, but I didn't have the time.”

“Later, when the need is not so great, I enjoy it when Humans have used their mouth.”

Jim's mouth—already a source of fascination to Spock—formed a brilliant smile. “As much as you want.”

Yes. As much as he wanted. For three days time. An emotion he couldn't identify impinged upon his mind. He tried to examine it, and recognized that it contained the concept of reluctance, of regret. For what? Always, in the past, he had been grateful when the Time was over, eager to put it behind him, eager to move on with his life. Why, then, this desire to prolong his stay?

Fever rose again, and thought receded, left discarded by the unseen tide of lust that consumed him. Fire flashed when Jim mounted him again, and then flame destroyed his mind.

*****

Spock opened his eyes, drifting in a haze of satisfaction. His cock, once again temporarily sated, had slipped from the recesses of the Human body, and Jim was moving, swinging one leg up and over, kneeling briefly at Spock's side. Lying there in a wonderful lassitude, briefly unplagued by need, Spock got a clear unfettered look at Jim's hard Human penis.

Jim was aroused. He admired the Human cock, its arching shape, its pinkish-red color, the way the skin stretched taut over the shaft.

Without thinking, he pulled his legs up and offered himself. Turning his gaze to Jim's face, he found himself smiling at the surprised expression.

“You don't have to do that,” Jim said.

“You are in need.”

“Not the same thing at all.” Jim offered him an easy grin, and Spock felt something in himself shift in response to the beauty of that expression.

“I want to do that.” He looked pointedly at Jim's groin. “Would you not enjoy it?”

Jim shrugged, then grinned. “The customer is always right.” He retrieved a tube from a drawer beneath the table.

Spock caught his breath as Jim stroked his cock, spreading the lubricant from base to tip. Jim's lips parted, his eyes unfocused and distant with the pleasure he was obtaining from his own hand. That, too, was another reason to envy Humans: they needed no other being to obtain their gratification.

Then Jim's gaze refocused, and he put on a practiced smile, slowing his stroke, smiling seductively, moving closer so Spock could have a better view.

It was becoming difficult to hold his legs up without the use of his hands, but Jim quickly made it easy for him. Positioning himself so his cock nudged the entrance to Spock's body, he settled Spock's legs on his shoulders.

The press of Jim's penis against his anus was a startling sensation; he wondered if there would be pain. He had not experienced penetration before. But Jim moved back, and reached once again for the lubricant. Spock craned his head, trying to see what Jim was doing, then he gasped at the sensation of a new touch: a strong finger, circling his entrance slowly, sending sparks and shards of sensation arrowing through his body.

The finger entered his body. The touch was most welcome. He pressed against it, already aware it wasn't enough. Jim looked up at him, and there was a smile on his face. Spock found himself smiling back, utterly unconcerned at this breach of Concealment. 

He gasped as a second finger joined the first, his body eagerly accepting its slow invasion. When Jim withdrew his hand, he felt only a brief moment of bereavement before a third finger joined its companions in a slow penetration of his body. His cock was pulsing again, but it was with less urgency, less flame than before. Need did not destroy rationality. He found that to be a wonder, and then forgot to think, focusing instead on the sensations inside his body, the way those fingers were spreading him, opening him. When they withdrew and were replaced, once again, by the tip of the Human's cock, he pressed forward immediately.

Spock gasped as the head entered his anus. Despite Jim's ministrations, the sensation was startling and painful. 

Jim paused. Sweat beaded his face and body, and his skin was flushed. “I can stop now.” His voice held a low throatiness that Spock found compelling. “I don't need to do this.”

Spock saw need in the other man's eyes, and he couldn't help but respond to it. “Yes, you do. I wish it.” And, in truth, he did. Flames were licking at him again; he could feel renewed pressure building in his groin, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than for Jim to continue with his actions, to place his penis inside his body, to pierce and penetrate him.

Jim shifted a bit, seeking a better angle, and Spock pulled at his chains, eager to assist him.

“Would you like me to take those off?”

“No,” Spock gasped in sudden fear. “No. Do not.”

Jim didn't say anything else. Strong hands moved from Spock's hips to his buttocks, parting him further, and then the slick Human cock was sliding in, penetrating him. Spock gasped at the unaccustomed feeling as the human began to thrust, slowly at first, and then more quickly. Sensations—of pain, of fullness, and then—startlingly—of pleasure filled him as nerves awakened and sent new information racing to his brain.

Jim's face revealed his pleasure. Spock watched, fascinated, as expressions of lust and need and surprisingly, tenderness, chased themselves across the mobile features. Now Jim's face was close to his, so close. He was desperate to close this gap. Fever made auras visible; he could see the crackle of brilliant light around Jim's face, see the way Jim's energy arced toward his, Seeking. Humans did not Seek, he reminded himself, and yet some treacherous part of him wanted to ask for a kiss, anything so he could touch Jim's face, anything that might initiate Touch.

Fear licked at his mind. He savagely bit his lip to prevent those words from escaping his mouth, and used that pain to quell his desperate longing for completion.

“Am I hurting you?” Jim gasped, but his body belied his concerns by thrusting more strongly.

“No,” he replied softly, feeling a thin trickle of blood from his lip. “No.”

His own penis had fully awakened now. The Fever, oddly, seemed less urgent; the sensations in his penis sharper, more localized. His cock was trapped between his body and Jim's, eagerly enjoying the friction in its contact with the skin of the other man's belly. He gasped at each dragging contact, writhed against the hardness inside him. The Human suddenly gasped out a short harsh cry, snapping his hips strongly, and Spock squeezed his eyes shut, savoring the sudden rush of hot fluid deep inside him; then suddenly, caught in the same tide, felt his body find its own satisfaction. 

Exhaustion crashed in on him. He closed his eyes, welcoming oblivion.

*****

The Human, wearing a short robe, was sitting at the table, making entries on a padd that was angled away from Spock's view. A tray of food was pushed to the edge of the table, several small plates showing the remains of what had been a large meal. The scent of strong coffee wafted from a cup and a carafe placed within easy reach.

Upon emerging from a sound sleep, Spock had spent several minutes just gazing at the Human, who seemed wholly focused on his work.

Spock's body felt good—calm, relaxed, peaceful. This was only a momentary lull; he knew the Fever would be back full force within the space of a few hours. But for now he could enjoy this simple sense of well-being.

It wasn't wholly unalloyed. His arms ached from the extended amount of time he'd been chained to the bed, and he felt an entirely unaccustomed soreness in his rectum. These discomforts did not matter. At least his body was clean; he had hazy recollections of Jim gently using cleaning cloths on him on several occasions as the hours had passed.

The Fever was abated for now; this Human had done wonderful things for him, and he knew he would once again survive the Time, and go back to his Family.

He had woken several times during the past few hours, sometimes in Need, sometimes not. Each time, he had found the Human sleeping beside him. Once Jim had been sprawled out on his back, head turned away, arms and legs flung wide. Another time, he had been curled up on his side, his face so close that Spock could examine each individual eyelash and the shadow it cast upon Jim's fair skin. Spock had spent long moments contemplating the fine texture of that skin, the curl and color of Jim's hair. His hands, still confined, had curled restlessly in their futile quest to know Jim's touch and texture, and though the rest of Spock's body was now intimately acquainted with these facts, that tactile knowledge was not enough, and never could be.

When he had been in Need, Jim, somehow sensitive to these changes, had awakened and used his hands or his mouth to give Spock relief. And that had been enough, for the first hunger was now past, and though it would flare again, several times before the Fever was fully assuaged, these other manipulations were enough to give him a quick and sometimes painful relief.

When he had awakened a few minutes ago, he had been alone in the bed. He had not, however, felt abandoned.

The Human was fascinating to observe. His hair was as changeable as his eyes. The overhead light picked up blond glints in otherwise light brown hair. And those eyes... When the Human had penetrated him and bent over his body, that face had been so close to his own that, even in the grip of his need, he had memorized every feature. He had stared into those eyes, trying to understand how flecks of green and brown could form an entirely new color, one that was changeable with each shift of the light. How odd to remember so much, during his Time. And yet he did.

He felt himself spontaneously smiling at the unaware human and examined the unusual phenomenon. He could smile, he had learned to do so among humans, as they did not understand parhavt'hal—the polite Concealment of all emotion. Smiling was something he had practiced. Smiling had led to acceptance among humans, and since he and the other men in his Family were rarely required to discuss their emotions, he found he was able to utilize some minor outward facial expression of feeling to good effect. These expressions were far simpler to manage than the intricacies of emotional language; he was grateful he rarely was confronted with the necessity of conversing about matters best left unvoiced.

It had taken years before his sense of indecency had faded enough to allow him to smile spontaneously, and he could still be shocked by public displays of tears or anger or laughter. It was, of course, entirely different if these displays were among the Family; it had been thus with his father's people, though such displays were quite subtle and restrained compared to those his Human Family indulged in. The Graysons were exuberant people, given to great emotional displays, both positive and negative. Parhavt'hal was not something many Humans valued, though all the members of his Family understood it and accepted it in him, and some, his cousin Sarah prime among them, practiced her own form of emotional control.

Jim looked up, and smiled back. It was a spontaneous smile, with none of the practiced art of a Companion. Jim quickly realized this, and got to his feet, body already in a seductive pose, his warm smile altering to one indicating sexual interest. “Do you need me now?”

Spock had noticed the human's gaze had shifted to his groin, before returning to his face. His penis was quiescent; he did not need now, nor would he, for a short period of time. “No, thank you. Do you not require rest?”

“Not right now.” Jim touched the padd, and Spock heard the distinctive click as the machine deactivated. “Do you need anything else? Food? Drink?”

Rilka had clearly not had the time to share information about many of his needs with Jim. His other Companions, on previous occasions, had known exactly what he required—and did not require—during this time. He would need neither food nor drink until the Fever had passed completely.

Jim had come to him clearly with little knowledge. Oddly, instead of inspiring fear, this realization triggered a surge of exhilaration. He wondered if he dared freedom from the restraints? It would be safe enough, now that he was not burning.

“No food. But if you would release me for a short time? Perhaps I will have some water.”

Jim moved to the bed, and touched the controls on the restraints. The manacles fell away, and Spock moved his stiff, painful arms down to his sides.

Jim moved to help him to a sitting position, and ran strong fingers over his shoulders and upper arms in a brief massage, taking Spock by surprise. “If you'd like to wash...?” Jim indicated a nearly-concealed doorway to a lavatory unit. 

Spock, aware that the air was heavy with the smell of rut, both his and the human's, ducked his head in a nod. He went inside the small chamber and made quick use of the water shower. After all these years, he still longed for sonics, but Humans hadn't invented that technology yet, and with many matters of more importance facing them, he'd never gotten around to designing one for either the Leda or any of the other Grayson ships.

He dried himself thoroughly, and discovered a thick, dark robe in the tiny closet space. Wrapping it loosely around himself, not bothering with the cloth belt, he joined the Human at the table.

In his absence, Jim had arranged for the delivery of an assortment of mineral and plain water. The small glass bottles were arrayed on a lacquer tray. Moved by this thoughtfulness, Spock selected one, and tasted its contents briefly, before setting it back down on the table.

Jim was watching him with open curiosity. “I've heard about you, of course, but meeting you is another matter.”

Spock felt strangely disconcerted at these words. “I hope you are not offended that I was so insistent in my choice of you. Rilka tried to explain to me that you are not a Companion, but in my need I desired you greatly when I saw you on the monitor.”

Jim spread his hands in an open gesture. “I have been a Companion, in the past. I don't object to serving again.” He didn't mention the exorbitant amount of money Spock had offered for him, and the Vulcan was grateful for that omission. Now that he wasn't in need, the sheer obsessive extravagance of his offer was vaguely embarrassing. He knew, of course, that he had no control over any of his actions during his Time, and yet, his instant craving for this human surprised him.

“I've never seen anyone like you before.” 

Jim was studying him with open interest, and—Spock was surprised to recognize—admiration. Jim's gaze flicked to the tops of his ears. Suddenly aware that his ears were completely exposed he made an aborted gesture to pull his hair forward to conceal them, then stilled his hands before the other man's curious eyes. 

“Where are you from?”

“I do not know.” How easily he lied. But it would not matter if he spoke these truths. “I was born in space. I have never been to my father's world. I do not even know, precisely, where it is.” Not precisely, no, not at any given time, but he could make a close approximation. That was another fact he would not confide. “My Family were—are merchants, travelers. We have been exploring space for many generations, but only recently encountered Humans.”

“You must have seen many wonderful things on your travels.” 

Spock detected the emotion called envy in Jim's tone. “Yes. I have.”

Jim began asking questions, and for the next hour, taking an occasional sip of water, Spock related many things... the iridescent nebula of K'tharu, the Thousand Moons of Dö'orýv, the winged people of Ñòykl. Spock drank in the many expressions that crossed Jim's face—interest, curiosity, and an odd hunger he didn't quite understand. Jim seemed fascinated by his tales of other worlds; and Spock found many incidents to relate. While he spoke of his travels, he contemplated with interest the color of the human hair, complex in its shades of gold and brown, and the fine texture of Jim's skin, and the supple softness of his features which could display many pleasing expressions.

Jim's most pleasing expressions were his smiles. Spock found himself captivated by the variety of those smiles. He was long since accustomed to the ease of Human emotional expression, and yet, Jim was unlike any Human he had seen before. Jim was looking at him as if, when he smiled, that smile were intended for him alone. He wasn't like Rilka's other Companions. Professional though they were, Jim was different.

“I dreamed of going into space, as a child—being a pilot, exploring new worlds.” Jim was focused on some distant, interior vision, not on Spock.

“Have you ever been off Tarsus—perhaps to Terra?” Spock asked.

Jim's gaze snapped back to his face, and a shuttered look instantly concealed the expression in his eyes. “I've never been offworld—not since I arrived here, and I was a boy then.” 

Spock heard the presence of strong emotion in Jim's voice, but he had once again become fascinated with Jim's eyes. That combination of green and gold and brown... so curious, how first one color seemed to predominate, and then another, changing in response to what Spock said. 

He realized a silence had stretched out between them during the time he had spent studying Jim's eyes. Jim gave him an encouraging smile. He searched his memory for the human's last words. “Where were you born?”

“On Terra. My parents were hoping to make a new beginning here. We came in the second wave of settlers.”

Spock knew the meaning of that bitter fact. “Before the famine,” he whispered.

Pain flashed across Jim's features. “Yes. Before the famine.”

Spock swallowed at the sorrow in Jim's voice. Then a hard brightness crossed the human face and the sorrow vanished as if it had never existed. Spock was quite impressed at this evidence of Parhavt'hal. He'd long known, of course, that Humans could be as skilled as Vulcans at concealing or denying their emotions; few of them ever chose to do so.

Spock wrapped his hands around the hard glass bottle. He dared to take a sip, then relaxed as the cool water soothed the dryness in his throat. A flush of heat bloomed in his body, a tightness gripped his genitals, and he shifted uncomfortably. “You were one of the Favorites?” He hadn't intended to speak of this, and regretted it the instant the words left his mouth. 

A bleak light shone in Jim's eyes, but an easy smile touched his lips. “Yes.”

“You must have been very young.” He should stop speaking of this. Why was he speaking of this? He shifted again. Need was back again, and he regretted it bitterly. He was actually enjoying this conversation with this fascinating stranger; he dearly wished that it could go on for many more hours.

Jim's smile hardened. “He chose me when I was thirteen, and I—left his service—when I was seventeen.” Jim studied his face again. “Tell me more about yourself—your people. Do you prefer humans to your own kind? Is that why you choose to come here—”

Spock had the sensation of quicksand opening before him. The need in his body was making it difficult for him to remember what it was safe to speak about, and what it was crucial never to say.

Jim must have read something in his expression, because he stopped speaking and gave a rueful laugh. “It's obvious I haven't done this work for awhile. I apologize for asking questions.”

“Do not apologize.” Spock wanted the softer expressions back on Jim's face. “I am very far from home. There was an—accident.” Some of his words were lies. Not all. He was saying too much—he knew it—but more words escaped him. “I know no others of my own kind.”

Jim's eyes were astonishingly expressive. They now displayed sympathy and sorrow for him, and more curiosity. “Can't you go back to your home world? Is there no one who knows where it is?”

“It is too far. My family had traveled for many years. It would take half a lifetime to return, and to what purpose? I know no one there. I would be a stranger.”

“You would be among your own kind.”

I am equally among my own kind here. But he managed to keep these words inside him. 

Jim's eyes were glowing with sympathy, and he suddenly reached out, laid his hand gently on Spock's forearm.

Heart racing, Spock flinched away from the unbidden touch, even as his cock leapt. He twisted at the sensation, and his robe fell open. Jim pulled back his hand, and opened his mouth to utter something—an apology? —but caught sight of Spock's urgent penis.

Jim glanced toward the bed, then at him, a clear question in his eyes.

Yes. That would be best. These words were becoming dangerous. It would be better to finish this; safer to be confined to the bed; preferable not to speak. Fever was spiking up again, and with a strangled moan, he lurched to his feet, and went to lie upon the bed.

Jim efficiently attached the manacles, then stepped into the lavatory. An instant later he emerged. Spock caught a strong whiff of the lubricant the other man had clearly just applied and his penis surged with need. When the human joined him on the bed and mated their bodies with instantaneous ease, Spock fell willingly, gratefully beneath the flames.

Fever flared. Jim's face hovered in the dimness above him, vanishing, being replaced with pieces of other images. Sometimes he thought it was she who gave him this ease, and he muttered broken words to her, in his childhood language. T'Pring, T'Pring. She had slaked his need only once, before—

Before—

He groaned, as nightmare and memory and need arrowed through his body, laser-sharp, and shoved T'Pring's memory away. He forced his eyes open, blurred through the fever haze, and kept his gaze on Jim as he came, again, and again.

*****

Floating, in a sea of calm well being, he allowed himself just to exist, to be, without thought. He sensed the approach of some warmth, some energy, moving along his side, then pausing next to his head Through slitted eyes, he watched, half-dreaming, as a darker form, haloed by light, hesitated beside him. For a long moment he absorbed that warm presence, recognition of t'hy'la becoming clear on some deep cellular level.

The form bent forward, and he felt the distinct press of lips against his temple. His hands, trapped in the manacles, twisted restlessly, fingers moving into an instinctive pattern. Everything in him yearned toward that one point of contact, moved forward, upward, outward, surging forward to meet its twin, its match. Energy touched energy with an astonished shock of recognition, interlaced and tightened together—

NO! 

Consciousness jolted through him and his eyes snapped fully open as Jim, startled, stepped back from his brief, tender kiss. 

Spock knew his eyes were wide with horror, knew his face must be betraying some powerful emotion, as the Human's face showed an expression of consternation. “Are you all right?”

“I—” he gasped, and found he was incapable of saying anything more. Some vast surge of energy had hit his body, struck and swirled and raced through his veins, like something struggling in a whirlpool. He coughed, choking, then managed, “Let me go.”

Jim quickly released the manacles. He leapt to his feet, staring at the other man. His heart was racing, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I'll call the medic,” Jim said.

“No. No,” Spock protested. “I was—it was a dream. You woke me from a dream.”

Jim looked mollified. “I'm sorry. I never do that—I don't know why I did.” He laughed shakily. “I've been out of the business longer than I thought. I know not to kiss anyone.” His concerned gaze searched Spock's face. “That must have been some dream.”

Spock fought against a dizziness that seemed to sweep him around the room. “My wife.” He managed to speak, through lips that seemed stiff and nearly beyond his control. “I was dreaming of her as she was—before she died.” He found he had backed up against the wall, flattening his hands against it to preserve his balance.

Jim's face was betraying more alarm. “You do need help.”

“No. I do not,” he insisted. He spared a moment to check his physical condition. Yes. The Fever was over. His Time had passed. And yet—

Staring into Jim's concerned gaze, he was intensely aware of what had passed between them. 

Fear consumed him. His mind raced. Perhaps this was repairable. Jim didn't act as if he'd noticed anything. Yes. He would meditate; he would destroy this thing that had happened. The sooner he left Jim's presence, the better.

He pulled in a deep breath. “I do not mean to alarm you. I require rest now.” Now that he was no longer in Need, he was suddenly aware of the cool air on his nakedness. He needed to find the right words, as Jim's eyes still betrayed concern. He forced his body to relax; he forced himself to step away from the wall. He dropped his arms down to his side, barely aware of the deep muscle ache from his long confinement. “It was being awakened so suddenly that caused me to react so. I thank you. Rilka always provides the best Companions.”

Something in Jim's gaze altered at that, and the professional smile returned. “We do our best. Do you need anything else?”

“Nothing. Just a few hours of rest. I will notify Rilka when I leave.” He ducked his head in a half-formal bow. 

Jim returned the gesture, then grabbed his padd from the table, and left through the further door.

Spock found himself staring blankly after him. Rest. Yes, he needed rest. On the Leda, not here. In the past, he had stayed for some extra hours, to replenish his strength, to be certain the Time was truly over.

He found a harsh, ugly sound had escaped his lips. He recognized the sound. A bitter laugh. His Time might be over. But what he had feared, what he had struggled against all these years, despite his best precautions, had happened. 

Now his true difficulties would begin.

A Bond had formed. He must obliterate it, before it destroyed him.

*****

He barely remembered the aircar ride back to the spaceport, or the way he staggered as he made his way through the terminal and back to his ship. Sheer physical exhaustion competed with the singing electricity of the newly-formed Bond; unpleasant physical symptoms racked his body. His heart raced; then chills shuddered across his skin. Muscles cramped. Doubtless, he appeared inebriated, but this was not something that would draw attention in Loris Town.

Once inside the Leda, he had resisted the temptation to curl up on his bed in the aft compartment. He desperately wanted to plunge into a healing sleep; he wanted to savor the new completeness. He wanted to reach out with his mind, to Touch his other soul. 

The coldness of what was left of his rational mind forbade he allow himself this indulgence.

He managed a call to the spaceport authorities, confirming that he would stay docked here for the remaining two days of his prepaid contract; informing them that his early return to his ship did not mean an early departure.

He gave in to one bodily need, and made a quick meal of prepackaged rations and plain water. Then he sat in the copilot's chair, Daniel's chair, and for long moments didn't think at all, merely letting the unaccustomed vantage point keep him conscious and aware on a very basic level.

He unclenched his hands and began a basic breathing exercise. He needed to enter into a deep state of meditation, but it was difficult to achieve any level of calm. 

For the next several hours he focused his attention on soothing the surface of his mind; a necessity before he finally dared go beneath that preliminary level, before he dared search out that place where the new connection had been made.

It was difficult to examine this. Difficult to recognize the cauterized stump of his bond with T'Pring. Her death had been a fireball in his mind, a lightning flash erasing sanity, leaving him like one stricken with a catastrophic illness, collapsing instantly to the ground, crawling mindlessly away from the pain, plunging into coma, seeking oblivion, heedless of self. Daniel had told him he did not come back to sanity for weeks after her death.

He did not understand why he had lived after T'Pring died, but in the years since, he had found that by clinging to the surviving threads of his former life he still had purpose: in being of use to his Human relatives, Daniel, Sarah, the children, and all the rest of his Human Family. But with every year that passed he was faced more and more with the pain of his relentless biology. He struggled with the constant fear of what might happen if he should form another Bond—something he knew he must never do. He was the only one of his kind, now; a being unlike any in the rest of the universe. A biological dead end. No one else must suffer, because of him.

He tried never to contemplate the ragged edges of the broken bond; had visualized strong scar tissue covering it, keeping him away from the pain which had nevertheless beckoned in the darkness of many nights spent alone. He would never be truly alone, of course, not as long as he was living with his Human Family, and yet, though he was surrounded by many people, there were none to truly understand that on some level he was starving.

He had collapsed into a coma when T'Pring had died. When he broke this new bond, that might happen again. If so, he had preprogrammed the Leda for departure in two days time. Perhaps his programming might not be sufficient to satisfy the Loris authorities, but they tended to be casual with their security scanning when well-supplied with his money, and would have little interest in the departure of a ship that had visited on several occasions in the past without incident.

Finally sinking down into a level deep enough to maintain calm, he found control and was able to dispassionately examine what had happened.

Here. It was here. Over, and around, and somehow through, like a dead tree now covered with strong, living, intertwined vines—here was the new link, somehow formed over the old Bond; as strong and as true as the link with T'Pring had ever been.

He carefully attempted to unknot the structure, and was instantly surprised at how strong it was, how quickly it had formed. Every careful untwining of the connections filled him with pain, cutting his mind as if the vines were knives slicing open his skin. When he fell back, not able to deal with the anguish, the link reknotted itself, becoming stronger, tighter, more impervious by the second. 

Finally in despair, he gave up and fell crashing back into reality, and finally, into a healing sleep.

*****

He awoke, feeling cold, cramped and stiff. He had somehow slipped from the chair and was lying curled up on the hard floor near the navigation console. He tried to sit, and dizziness, sorrow, and pain all threatened to overcome him.

He grabbed the copilot's chair and levered himself up. Blinking blurred eyes, he looked at the ship's chrono. It confirmed his time sense was still intact. Over 48 hours had passed since he had left Rilka's establishment. He had less than a day to deal with the situation, and he knew he must deal with it now. The longer he waited, the more irrevocable the Bond that now linked him to a stranger. 

He forced himself to think. There must be a solution.

It was clear he couldn't deal with this now, alone. He stood. This might lead to his death. But if he did not take this step, his death was certain.

He did not know yet what he would do. But perhaps, if he were to see Jim again, he would be able to break the link at its source. He hoped this would not damage the Human. He knew breaking the Bond would cause damage to himself. There was a strong possibility he might not be able to return to the Leda.

And, whether or not he was capable of returning to the Leda, in all likelihood the human would not let him. It would be necessary to tell Jim the truth. He knew the Human's likely response. 

Cold fear filled him; he set it aside.

He took a moment to add to the ship's programming. There. If he did not return in the scheduled period of time, the ship would self-destruct. He made certain the damage would be contained to the engine compartments; once done, the ship would be unusable. It was already untraceable. He and Daniel had wiped the computer clean before this Jump to Tarsus; at all costs he must keep his Human Family safe in case the Ministry of Truth discovered his existence.

It was time to leave. He was, very probably, living the last hours of his life. He dressed quickly in fresh clothing, and, taking a selection of weapons with him, went back into Loris Town.

*****

Once outside the confines of the spaceport, he disregarded the vehicles-for-hire. Instead he walked into the vast, smelly warren of Loris Town, letting instinct guide him.

He forced his way through twisted, crowded streets, following his unerring knowledge of the correct direction. Leaving the commercial district quickly behind, he moved into a succession of darkened alleys. Buildings rose above him, several stories high, cutting off the light. In shadowed corners, things shuffled and rustled, stank and dripped. Shouts and arguments and screams rang in the air; once someone ran past him, gasping for breath, followed quickly by a pursuer.

He was well able to see in the low level of light, and in corners and doorways he saw men who would rob him, who would kill him without thought. Yet, he had no need of the weapons he carried. He could feel himself being assessed, and each time unerringly found the gaze of his potential attackers.

Each time, he passed unmolested. He did not understand it, but there was something in the aura around him that projected menace, warned others away.

He had been surprised when his path led him far from the House of Flowers, and yet the link was true and clear, and he mourned at this further evidence of his failure to break the Bond. But this, at least, might lead to success. With the Bond between them already so fully formed, no matter where Jim had gone on this planet, he would be able to follow and find him.

Alleys. Darkness. Violent sounds, repulsive smells. He walked through it all, finding what he knew was the most direct, most sure path to his unwilling Bondmate.

Into a basement, through a dark confusing maze of paths and blank rooms, heading deep underground, and still he knew exactly where to go. Shapes of abandoned furniture, broken crates surrounded him in the darkness. The only light came from a tiny sliver of a window set near the ceiling. Finally, he faced a door half-rotted and splintered with time.

He grasped the handle, pulled it aside, finding it surprisingly sturdy despite its appearance, and stared blankly at what was revealed beyond.

There was another door, inset within the first. Brushed silver metal formed a frame for a shimmer of blue nothing. A hazy ripple shuddered through the energy pattern.

Finally, he realized what it must be. 

A transport panel. Exorbitantly expensive, and yet here it was, in a filthy tenement basement, a jewel in the darkness.

He looked at it in wonder. He had heard of this technology. It was truly an amazing achievement—the ability to break any object down into its component atoms, transport those atoms amazing distances and then reassemble the original object, whole and complete, at a selected destination.

Many had died in perfecting this technology. Only Terran warships and the wealthy elite of Terra had access to it. What was it doing here? How could it possibly be here, in this furthest of the frontier worlds? Kodos had more actual authority on Tarsus than Terra's distant Administrator could claim; an object of such fabulous value should be in his palace, not in the basement of some criminal hideout in Loris Town.

It did not matter. He realized, with a sizzling sense of anticipation and fear, that—wherever this led him—Jim would be waiting.

There was no way of telling where the panel was preprogrammed to beam a user. Perhaps one needed a particular code. Perhaps it led to nothing but an unimaginably fragmented, dispersed death.

It glowed in the dark, a shimmering panel of power. He reached out to it, then hesitated, his fingertips a bare inch from the swirling energy.

He swallowed and dropped his hand.

And yet... he had no choice. It was imperative he find Jim and break what had formed between them—even if he died in the process.

If he didn't find Jim, he would die anyway. It would just take a little longer. Better to die now, than in an unfulfilled pon farr.

I am insane, he thought as he stepped through the transport door.

Flash—swirl—sensation—a thousand insects crawling on his skin, screeching in his ears—passing through a thickness, slow as water. Then—light—

Dim light. He stumbled forward into a small barely-lit room. A confused impression of computer displays and racks of weaponry hit his vision before he focused on the Human behind a desk.

The Human locked eyes with him. A phaser instantly appeared in Jim's hand. Spock took a second to wonder at the presence of this new, expensive technology in the hands of someone like Jim. This was Terra's latest weapon and thus the most costly merchandise in the trade of underground arms dealers.

He had seen phasers before. He recognized the setting.

Set to kill.

Their gaze held. 

“How did you follow me?” Jim demanded.

Spock swallowed. How to put into words what he had never dared speak of. “I must speak to you. Something happened between us.”

Jim laughed, a harsh, hoarse sound. “Yes. Something did. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since then. What did you do to me?”

“It... is difficult for me to speak of this.”

“What are you?”

“I am a Vulcan.” There, words he had never spoken outside of Family, in the air now, spoken to a stranger. 

Meaningless words. The Human's face showed blank incomprehension. “I've never heard of that race.”

“Few Humans have. I spoke the truth earlier. I have never seen my father's world.”

“You didn't answer my question. The important question. How did you follow me? What did you do to me?”

Spock closed his eyes tightly, then forced them open. “Rilka would have told you why I come to her establishment every few years. Why I must be chained to the bed while having sex.”

“She said your species has a rut cycle; that you are much stronger than humans; that you are afraid of injuring us.”

“That is all true,” he whispered. “But that is not the reason I need to be restrained. I do this because I cannot allow myself to Touch you—any of you.”

“There was plenty of touching going on between us.” Bitter irony laced the human's voice.

“With my hands,” he explained. “With my lips. I do not kiss, either. I fear Attachment.”

He flinched from the heat of Jim's anger. “You're going to have to explain yourself better than this.”

“I requested you because I felt shan hal lak...” He struggled for an equivalent Human word. “Attraction. I knew it was dangerous. It is not possible to think rationally in pon farr. I thought all was planned, and then I broke the plan myself, because of my Attraction to you.”

Jim's grip tightened on the phaser. “You're going to have to start making sense soon, or else I won't need to listen to you at all.”

“Why did you kiss me? It was you who kissed me. I would have warned you, if I had known what you intended.”

“I know better than to kiss a client. I don't know why I did that...” Jim shook himself, the phaser wavering for a moment, then leveling again. “Enough bullshit. Explain, in simple words, what you did to me. How you followed me here.”

The words threatened to choke him; when he finally spoke, he knew the words to be his death sentence. “I am a telepath.”

Jim's eyes went wide with shock. “Psi!” The word was an curse, an abomination. 

Spock did not mistake the look of disgust and loathing that filled Jim's face. Inside, something cringed, something broke.

Jim's face displayed fear and sheer rage. “What have you done to me?”

“I have formed an Attachment to you. I can break it. I came to break it.” 

“How do I know you haven't taken over my mind?”

“If I had, would I stand here, like this, before you? If I could control your thoughts, would you be holding that phaser?” He swallowed against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him; he struggled to find Human words that would explain concepts that Humans did not possess. “I swear to you, I have not done this deliberately. I came to break what formed between us. It had not been my intention to make a Bond.”

Dark rage contorted Jim's face. “I don't know what you did. But I think it will end if I kill you.”

“Yes. That is true.” Spock resisted the temptation to close his eyes against the waves of anger and hatred emanating from the Human. He would face death with his eyes open.

Jim held his gaze for another long moment, then his expression shifted and some of the anger drained away. But his voice was vicious when he spoke. “Get out of here.” The hazel eyes blazed. “Get off Tarsus. Never come back. If you do, I'll kill you. Don't think I won't know it, if you return.”

Spock hesitated. His own life was forfeit, but what of Jim's? What would this bond do to the Human, if it were allowed to continue, unbroken?

“Go, before I kill you.” The phaser shifted up again, aimed directly at his chest. Not that it mattered—a strike anywhere would destroy him.

Spock turned. How odd. It was difficult to move his feet. One step. Another. Then a rhythm resumed; he could move away from this man, back to the transport door. 

Don't pause. Don't look back.

He didn't do either. When he reached the door he stepped into that swirling energy without hesitation. He felt nothing for an eternal instant before he found himself in the stink and clutter of that badly-lit Loris Town basement again.

He turned and stared into the blue energy pattern, mind blank. With numb hands, he closed the splintered wooden door against the way to his Bondmate. Forever closed.

He was already dead. It might take another two to three years, but his fate was assured.

Like a sleepwalker, he threaded his way back through the narrow, dangerous streets of Loris Town. Someone tried to rob him; he left his attacker unconscious in a stinking pile of garbage. His actions and words were automatic as he gave bribes and followed port protocol to reclaim his ship.

Once back on board the Leda, his body demanded survival. Foolish, and yet he ate and drank, replenishing the reserves drained by his Time. 

At one point he found himself sitting in the pilot's chair, staring at the controls. There seemed no point in doing anything, and yet his hands moved of their own accord. He was able to function. At the very least, he needed to return the Leda to his cousin. The ship was valuable. He spared a moment to consider that it was good that the ship did not have to be sacrificed, as well. The self-destruct sequence had automatically deactivated upon his return.

He secured permission for liftoff and took the Leda into the approved orbit. Once there, he programmed the course heading into the auto-pilot. The ship would make three random Jumps, in case anyone was attempting to trace his course, and then would proceed to the Zeus. From this point on, the ship would do it all without him.

He made his way to the aft cabin, feeling as if every part of his body was now a stranger to him. I have no future, he thought. Without bothering to remove any of his clothing, he collapsed into a fetal position on his bunk and covered himself with every blanket he possessed. He was filled by a weariness so palpable it seemed a thing entirely separate from himself. A harsh emotion stained his mind. He recognized it.

Despair.

He had known this emotion before. He had been saturated in this emotion when he had woken from his coma and discovered that he alone of his people lived.

He had somehow survived.

He would not survive this.


	2. Daniel Grayson

Still no signal from the Leda. I don't like to admit it, but fear is clutching my gut. There the Leda is, registering sweet and clean on the tracking room instruments—and dead silent. Is she returning empty? Bringing back a corpse?

Another half hour, and we'll know. But for now I'll keep tracking, and I'll at least try to do some work on the calculations for our next run to Quaoar, at the edge of the Terran system. I wonder if I'll make it back this time. If Spock isn't my pilot—

I can almost hear him quoting the odds, and they aren't good.

No. He's alive. Maybe the Leda's communication system has gone out—it wouldn't be the first time. Not that Spock can't repair systems with only a laser cutter and titanium wire. But if something crucial has blown—

“Daddy!”

Mandy, my youngest child, races in and leaps upon my lap. “Oooof!” I pretend to be crushed by her weight, and she screams with delight. She thinks she's a big girl now, and at nearly 10 years old, she is. 

She has her hair up in some untidy mess. She's still wearing that garish dress—bright pink and green feathers decorating some fancy material now filled with snags and runs. We all know this ridiculous garment was originally intended for upper-class gentlemen to wear at social functions on Carson's World. That didn't stop Mandy from going into ecstasies over it when she and her aunt found it at a bazaar. Someone finally had the sense to laser off the long train before Mandy managed to break her neck tripping over the material.

I smile at my daughter and for an instant I feel some peace of mind. My older sister Sarah will be here any minute tracking Mandy down. I won't have to entertain Mandy for long. 

The beeping of the directional beacon catches my attention. I focus on the main monitor.

The Leda is right on course. I hit the hailer again. “Zeus to Leda. Zeus to Leda. Spock? Are you there?”

“Spock!” Mandy bends over the hailer, quite intent, her young voice imitating adult tones. “Come in, Spock.”

There is no reply.

“What's wrong, Daddy?” she asks, looking up at me, and for a moment I am struck with the memory of her mother. Mandy's eyes look so much like Leora's, and her face... her face is growing to resemble her mother's, as well.

I guess it's a good thing my memory of Leora has faded a little bit. The anger—the rage, though—that seems as fresh as it was the day she died.

My sister Sarah shows up then, all hard angles and contained power; a dynamo of energy contained in a body a full head shorter than I. She ignores me and gives Mandy a thorough scolding. Mandy's supposed to be studying now. The teaching computer shows she hasn't even completed half of the required reading. She shouldn't be running around the halls of the Zeus in that silly dress.

Sarah focuses on the control panel. “Spock?”

“He's not answering my hails.”

“He's never done that before.” The hard light of the tracking room highlights the lines in her face, picks up the grey that has now overwhelmed the red in her hair. It occurs to me she's now older than our mother was when she died.

“No.” I wish we could afford better sensor equipment. If I spent all my time on commerce, and none on politics, I'd bring in more money. There was no way to scan the Leda, no way to tell if Spock was dead or alive until the automatic berthing procedure took place.

“I'll see who's available in Med. Come on, Mandy.” 

Mandy had already sensed something was wrong; she'd been looking between us with a fearful expression on her delicate face. “Is Spock OK?” 

“We don't know, Mandy. I'm sure he's fine,” Sarah said as she herded my child back out of the cluttered tracking room.

Now there was nothing to do but watch and wait. The Leda was on final approach now and the docking sequence had begun to activate. I locked down the communications board and headed out to the outer ring, to the docking area. Minutes dragged until the sequencing code lit, and the airlock automatically opened.

I was through that door and to the other side in an instant, waiting impatiently as the lock cycled again. The entire procedure repeated itself on the Leda. Finally the last door opened. I was through the safety access tube and onto the Leda's rear deck in one single second.

Nothing. I raced to the control room—empty. I reversed course and ran to the aft cabin—and found Spock curled up on his bed in a fetal position.

He didn't move—he didn't even seem to breathe. I laid my hand against his throat, and was instantly reassured by the fever-heat of his skin and the rapid thrum of that swift alien pulse. But he didn't stir at my touch, and his skin color was even more sallow than usual.

“Spock,” I whispered, then repeated it in a normal tone. “Spock.”  
I touched one shoulder, then shook him slightly. A moan escaped his cracked lips, and, encouraged, I did it again. 

Finally, dark eyes blinked open, and he stared at me. For an instant, it was as if he didn't see me at all, then confusion faded from his gaze, to be replaced by deep pain.

“Daniel,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. He blinked, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. “Where?”

“You've docked with the Zeus,” I said. “You're back from Tarsus.”

“Tarsus.” He struggled to a sitting position. I filled a cup from the water outlet and handed it to him. His fingers were clumsy as he took it; it slipped and he grabbed for it, spilling some on his bed. He stared at the stain for a moment, then drained the cup and handed it back to me. His hands were shaking, as if he were in pain.

“Are you hurt?” I asked. 

“No,” he replied. Hollow eyes looked at me out of a gaunt face. He always looked like shit after pon farr; thin, dehydrated, run-down. But this time—

He looked worse than usual, and it wasn't his physical condition. It was the expression in his eyes.

Raw pain. Absolutely despair.

“What happened to you?”

“Let's go home. I'll tell you there.”

Roj showed up just then, concern prominent on his craggy, bearded face. He insisted on taking Spock's pulse and listening to his breathing. We all knew his actions were meaningless. If anything was ever seriously wrong with Spock, there was nothing any of us could do for him. All knowledge of Vulcan medicine had been destroyed with Sarek's ship. Spock would have to live or die without our help.

Vulcans healed from most things very quickly. At least there was that.

“What happened?” Roj demanded. 

Spock's slanted brows had pulled together in a frown, and that in itself was bad. He rarely allowed himself any display of negative emotion; if he was angry or hurt or ill he always concealed those feelings behind an expressionless, stony face. 

“I need more rest.” He got to his feet and headed to the airlock, Roj and I trailing behind him.

We re-entered the Zeus and went directly to the lower habitat ring. Roj headed toward his own home with just a “See you later”. If it had been one of us, Roj would have added a parting shot to come by Med tomorrow for a complete checkup. But he didn't say it. There was no point.

As soon as Spock and I got to our four room suite, he dropped his clothes and headed into the shower. He spent longer in there than usual, and when he emerged, he thanked me for the meal I had waiting for him. He ate in silence.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

He stared at his empty plate. “I need more rest.” His voice hadn't recovered its strength, and his posture—slumped shoulders, bowed head—still screamed of a despair I hadn't seen from him in many years. He got to his feet clumsily and headed into his cabin.

I was still keyed up and decided to go join Sarah and my kids for dinner. At least I could tell them Spock was OK. No, scratch that. At least I could tell them he was alive.

*****

I got up late, with just a trace of a hangover. After Sarah had put my kids to bed—or rather, put Mandy to bed; the twins went right to their own quarters after dinner, ready to get right back into their current sim game—we had a few drinks, and talked about nothing much. After I told her I didn't know what was wrong with Spock, what was there to say? I usually didn't spend time with Sarah; there was always a certain level of judgment in her eyes which pissed me off. But she was worried about Spock, not focused on criticizing me, even with her silences, and things between us were fine. For once. Even though I had four drinks to her one, she didn't say a word.

I stretched and yawned, then went into the main room. Spock was seated in front of his floor-to-ceiling desk/shelving combo. Every possible space on that unit was taken up with bits and pieces of salvaged computer gear, all neatly organized and catalogued. Several were “works in progress”, and telltale lights were glowing on a couple of these units. He'd clearly activated them, planning to do some work, but he was staring blankly ahead, hands dropped to his sides. The message unit was blinking, unheeded. I could tell he hadn't bothered to read any of his accumulated messages. It would be mostly repair requests, anyway.

He'd put on coffee for me, as usual, and I grabbed a cup. Also as usual, the room was filled with the strong smell of that bark tea he likes. A full cup was sitting on the desk in front of him.

“Spock.”

He swiveled to face me. I sat down in a nearby chair, and drank coffee. “What happened?” I finally asked, because he clearly didn't intend to talk.

He interlaced his fingers and bowed his head. When he finally began to talk, I could feel the room getting colder and colder around me. 

Nothing was wrong with the temperature, of course. I listened, but in the end I couldn't figure out anything to say. What do you say when your best friend, a guy you've known all your life, and whose been closer to you than any of your real brothers, tells you he only has a couple of years to live?

There wasn't even anyone to ask, to confide in. There was no one alive who had any knowledge whatsoever of Vulcan physiology. All Spock had to draw upon was what he had learned in the first twenty years of his life—and all too often, that had proved to be inadequate, at least as far as pon farr was concerned. 

He finished his story, and his words dropped into silence.

“This Jim,” I said finally. “You don't think that maybe the bond will make him change his mind? You said he was thinking about you—”

He was shaking his head adamantly. “No. He will not. He loathes me. He would not want to be with a Psi.”

“You're not a Psi,” I protested.

Sorrow showed in his gaze. “It makes no difference, does it? I am a telepath—”

“You're nothing like them!”

“How will he ever know that?” He got to his feet. “Isn't the Clytemnestra coming in today? We should help prepare.”

He disappeared back into his room. I knew the conversation was closed. And, if it was ever reopened, he would have to be the one to do it. 

And if nothing could be done... He'd die, and that would be the last of it. The last of Sarek's people; the last of the connection between the Grayson clan and the Vulcan race. No other Vulcan ship had ever ventured out this far in space. No Terran ship could travel swiftly enough to reach that world in any time to help Spock. It would take half a human lifetime, or more, to traverse that distance in a Terran ship. Spock would be dead in less than three years.

And I'd be alone. Even surrounded by nearly a hundred of my kin here on the Zeus, even though I would be welcome at any of our half dozen onplanet Homes... I'd be alone.

Spock would be gone. 

As my wife Leora was gone. As T'Pring was gone. As Amanda, who had been a mother to me for so many years, was gone. As so many of my kin and friends were gone, all killed when the Terran Federation had destroyed Sarek's ship.  
Sometimes I felt like a ghost, walking among my own family. My kids were great, but they spent most of their time with Sarah, and it was better that way. I got angry too quickly sometimes, or fell into a black mood, and it wasn't good to be around me then. Everyone understood, but Spock was the only one who knew what it felt like. We never talked about it. We didn't have to. If I ever wanted to talk about this, Spock was the only one who could possibly understand.

T'Pring's death had nearly killed him. I'd felt like a dead man when my own wife had died. How much more so for him, linked to his wife by their mysterious telepathic Bond. He'd been in a coma for weeks. I'd been the only person who ever thought he'd wake up. Everyone else was surprised when he did.

What would I do after Spock was dead? 

I didn't want other friends. I didn't want the rest of my family. I didn't want my own children, and my sister knew that, and still Sarah managed to forgive me for it.

I wanted what was forever lost. 

*****

There were already a dozen people waiting in the docking area when the Clytemnestra arrived, fresh from its mission to Terra. Spock insisted on helping with the unloading. He still looked ashen and weary. I was one of the few who knew of the real reason for his recent absence—many of the rest, who hadn't guessed the truth, would assume he'd been off on another trading trip, legitimate or not. 

It was a good thing we'd recently been able to sell a large cargo of kevas and trillium. The proceeds from that sale covered our current share of ship's expenses. Spock would need to borrow against his earnings from future cargoes for other current expenses, as he had spent all his profit from our recent trip on his profligate, tragic purchase of Jim's services.

The Clytemnestra settled onto the docking pad while we watched from the viewscreen. The ship locked down, the hatch closed, and environmental controls cycled in. As soon as the atmospheric pressure equalized, the security doors opened, and we all entered through the airlock.

Tam and William, both dressed in stained pilot's gear, had emerged from the ship by the time we entered the docking bay. Her long blonde hair was tied in a knot at the back of her neck. His hair, longer and blonder, flowed down to his waist.

“This mission went as smooth as an Orion girl's skin!” William claimed, with a sidelong wink at his wife. Even the scarring on his chin and cheek, a product of his days in a Terran gulag, didn't prevent his face from radiating good cheer. 

Tam produced a theatrical sigh. “Everything went fine. The setup on Quaoar was sweet and clean; no sign of Interceptors or any Terran ships at all.”

“Let's get started,” William suggested. He and his wife re-entered their ship. We all followed as they headed directly into the hold where dozens of lifetubes were stacked floor to ceiling. The tubes occupied every bit of the cargo space; they were crammed right up to the hatch door and nearly grazed the high ceiling.

The lifetubes always reminded me of transparent coffins. Bodies floated inside, passive, eyes closed. The medics would tell you that the heart rate and respiration of human beings in stasis was barely detectable. And yet people in lifetubes could be revived after years in stasis. They usually experienced no ill effects, except, perhaps, for odd dreams.

The technology had been developed for lengthy space voyages—the sort of voyages requiring decades of travel time. With the invention of the FTL drive, they were used less often. It was rumored that the Terran government was still sending out lifetube missions far further out in space than the confines of the Terran Federation, but within Human space, there was little need for this technology.

It had been developed at the beginning of the spacefaring era, and rumor had it that there were still ships lost somewhere out in the darkness between star systems, forgotten remnants of long-ago colonizing missions to distant stars, still carrying their unconscious cargo. There had been many of these early missions, and a few had disappeared without trace into the silence of space. 

As a child, I had told my share of spooky legends about ghost ships, sailing through empty space, haunted by the trapped spirits of their still-living cargo. I had heard my sons telling just those same stories, not all that long ago, whispering of ghosts and hauntings to a rapt audience in a room lit by a single glowbar. Seeing the odd light against the young faces of other children had reminded me of my own childhood, listening to or telling just such stories. I hadn't liked that reminder of my past.

Lifetubes were still useful in some instances—medical transport, among them. The Terran government was the chief user of this technology. It made transporting political prisoners to the asteroid mines easy and safe—for their crews. With all prisoners unconscious, they did not need to expend money on guards. One pilot was all that was necessary to take a full load of dissidents to whichever asteroid was currently being gutted.

The minimal crew on prison transport ships, of course, made what we did very easy. We all knew it wouldn't last, though. We had effected too many rescues. We had liberated too many prisoners, we had destroyed too many Terran ships. With each trip that we made, the danger increased. Yet, none of us considered stopping what we were doing. Each of us, for our own reasons, was passionately committed to this work.

Spock and I worked quickly, picking up opposite ends of each lifetube, then passing it over to waiting hands. The occupants would be taken to Med and revived. Most of them wouldn't have been in stasis for very long, so their recovery should be relatively quick. 

Five, ten, a dozen. The plasteel of the tubes was cold and smooth in my hands. The bodies inside shifted slowly in their liquid cocoon, pale as corpses, still as stone.

One of them caught my attention. I didn't know why, at first. It was a woman, dressed, like all the rest, in the shapeless grey prison gear. Her body shifted, dark brown hair drifting over her face and then moving back in the tube’s internal tide. A pale face was revealed; an older woman. Her eyes were closed, her face was as still as death. Even in the artificial sleep, the lines on her face evoked character and strength and humor. Something about her reminded me of Amanda. 

Spock saw it too. I saw it in the way his gaze riveted to her face, in the gentleness of his hands as he passed the tube on to the next person. 

We reached for another tube. And another. And, finally, we were done. The hold was empty, ready for its next cargo—a legitimate one, this time. Tam and William wouldn't be going back to the Terran system for a while. It was Spock's and my turn next to make the run. If he was up to it.

I took another look at his pale face. I had seen his hands tremble, once, when he'd handed over the tube that contained the woman who resembled Amanda. Otherwise, he'd been as strong and steady as always.

It didn't take him long to recover from pon farr. After a few days, he was his ordinary self again. But recovery from a new Bond... a denied Bond...

There was no recovery possible.

Well, there was no point thinking about it. We had work to do.

There wasn't room for all the lifetubes in Med, of course. Once we'd become actively involved with this work, we'd converted a large storeroom near Med for a storage chamber for the lifetubes. Another nearby storeroom served as a cramped dormitory for our temporary guests, once they were revived. 

We put most of the tubes in the storeroom, bringing them in six at a time for Roj and Sarah and whoever else was handling the Reviving process.

They were well underway when Spock and I arrived. It only took a few minutes to drain a tube and bring the life processes of its occupant up to normal. Roj and Sarah did most of that work; Spock and I and Tam and William brought in the new tubes and took the empties back to the storage room. Once a tube's occupant was awake, Miriam and Erika would guide the disoriented man or woman to the dormitory and settle them in on their bunks with warm blankets and tea. Almost all of them wanted paradoxically to go right back to sleep; it took many hours of normal sleep before most people who had been held in stasis were ready to face the waking world again.

That was good. We didn't have to answer questions right away. These people expected to awake to a short brutal life on a mining world. They didn't expect to awake to a fresh new future. And not all of them could handle the knowledge of either hope or fear right away.

We had processed 37 tubes when it happened. Power failed on a tube. All processes froze. The draining of the life-preserving liquid had only just begun.

An alarm screeched. Seconds raced by as we struggled to open the tube. Spock attempted to reprogram the control panel, but it shorted out beneath his hands, sending him reeling back, gasping at the pain of his burned fingers. I grabbed a laser cutter and forced it along the seal, but the work was painfully slow.

The woman inside the tube thrashed and struggled. Caught partway through the Revival process, she had begun breathing on her own again and had taken in a full lungful of liquid.

Sarah ran over with a second laser cutter. Spock grabbed a third, and we tackled the tube from three angles, horribly aware of the convulsing body inside.

Long moments passed. We cut through one seam, then another. Liquid spurted out and ran down the smooth sides of the tube, splashing our feet. The laser cutters whined, nearing overload. I was running my cutter toward one end; Spock toward the other.

Then the tube was cut half through.

The woman inside had gone very still.

Roj brought over an engineering balance tool; he ignored its delicate technical function and used it like a crowbar, wedging it into the thin opening we'd created. For a moment it seemed like it might work; the opening opened a further inch or two, more liquid poured out—and then the tool snapped.

Spock and I continued cutting around the other side, heading toward the opening Sarah was making. Finally, we cut all the way through.

The top half of the tube came off with a screech of cut metal as Roj and Miriam lifted it away. Erika was ready. She pulled the limp body out from its liquid bath and began administering CPR.

Roj grabbed the stim device and shocked the limp woman again and again; Miriam continued work with the artificial respiration machine. Moments passed. Long moments.

And then they gave up.

It was only then I got a good look at the woman's face, and realized this was the woman who had reminded me of Amanda.

Spock was staring at her, his face as blank and still as it ever became when he was dealing with some strong emotion.

“That's it, then,” Roj said. 

I pounded a fist against the tube’s side, swearing. Everyone looked away from me until I caught my breath and shut up.

We always lost one or two of them, due to malfunctioning lifetubes. The Terran government didn't focus on quality; not for prison gear. Not for people who were expected to die anyway, destroyed by the hardships of the mining camps. But why did this one have to look like Amanda?

Roj and Miriam carried the body to a side room that functioned as a temporary morgue. Spock and I looked at each other, then went back to the storeroom and retrieved another tube. He said nothing. I didn't either. 

There was nothing to be said.

*****

“I know you've had everything explained to you already. But you probably don't remember much of what they told you in the dormitory.” Samuel Grayson's deep voice cut across the sporadic conversation taking place among the people seated at the u-shaped table arrangement in one of the Zeus' main dining halls. Samuel's broad, stocky body moved with ease as he paced from one end of the head table to the other, then stopped behind the central chair. His expansive gestures took in the entire crowd—Grayson Family members and bedraggled, exhausted refugees alike. If anyone was the leader of the anarchic Grayson Family—at least, those members of the Family on the Zeus—it was him. 

The former prisoners all still looked stunned. I glanced from face to face, seeing traces of curiosity, anxiety, suspicion and hope marking individual faces. Most of the refugees were silently drinking coffee or tea or sipping soup. Solid food was available, but most of them weren't ready to eat anything other than liquids. Stasis was like that. All appeared gaunt and pallid, and some were still trembling from the aftereffects of hibernation.

Roj, Tam and William were seated at the head table, along with Sarah and a few of the other Family members actively involved in political work. Spock and I were seated at a side table, surrounded by refugees.

“We're not going to tell you who we are, or where you are. You don't need to know that. What you do need to know is, you're no longer in Terran Federation territory.”

Gasps and murmurs of shock and the sound of shifting bodies filled the room. The refugees tensed with fear.

Several people seated near us had spent the last several minutes staring at Spock. He was, doubtless, the first alien any of them had ever seen. I always wondered why he put himself through this ordeal; the expressions of fear and sometimes disgust couldn't have been pleasant. 

He always acted as if he didn't notice any rude behavior. He'd been an alien among Humans for so long, and if the negative emotions directed at him disturbed him, he never showed it. I was certain this was merely Vulcan parhavt'hal. I knew he was used to this sort of reaction. He occasionally got that similar responses from some of the Family. Some of our Homes onplanet had frequent alien guests or even permanent residents but there were other Homes inhabited by people who rarely or never went into space and so never encountered aliens.

Spock had told me that his reason for attending these dinners was his way of demonstrating to the newly-arrived refugees the truth of Samuel's words—that they were no longer in Terran Federation territory. Because no alien could possibly be sitting, dining among Humans, in any territory dominated by Pure Human thought.

If I were him, I wouldn't come to these dinners. Or I would have picked a fight. It was sometimes hard to resist that temptation. Fear, even disgust was understandable, even though it pissed me off. But the disdain, the contempt, the condescension that some of these people displayed on first meeting Spock—that made me want to take the guilty party and ram their face through a bulkhead.

I'd managed to avoid doing that. So far. 

But I might make an exception for the woman right across from Spock.

Spock had pointed out to me that their reaction was logical, if emotions could be described as having any logic. All of these people, radical thinkers or not, had been raised in the Pure Human atmosphere of Terra. All they had heard from childhood about aliens were stories of evil, disgust and fear. Intellectually, I knew, some believed themselves above such thought. But when it was put to their first test...

Samuel was continuing. “I know some of you are familiar with historical records of earlier times. There were groups of people who organized what they called an 'underground railroad'—a railroad being a primitive means of transportation—to rescue people who had been enslaved and take them to a place of safety. What we have done is the same concept. There are people on Terra, and people in the colonies, who believe as you do—that the Terran government's oppression of the Human race is wrong, and needs to be resisted. That the automatic rejection of people from other worlds is cutting us off from many opportunities.”

Many turned to stare openly at Spock, who sat placidly eating a vegetable risotto, seemingly oblivious to this attention. The blonde woman across from Spock looked at him with an undisguised expression of disgust.

“You,” I said in a menacing tone, and, after a startled look at me, she focused her attention back on her barely-touched food. 

Samuel hadn’t paused in his orations. “We have been intercepting some of the transport ships taking dissidents and other prisoners to the asteroid mines, and taking the people we rescue out of Terran Federation space, to the Fringe worlds.”

He didn't add certain other details. It wasn't necessary for them to know that the selected ships we intercepted were chosen on the basis of wanting to rescue one or two specific people. All the rest of the people we rescued could be counted as afterthoughts, though of course taking any prisoner from the Terran Federation's clutches was satisfying in itself. We did have to be careful of the occasional murderer and rapist—or spy—we rescued. Records weren't always clear and concise, and most political prisoners were also accused of other serious crimes, in order to eliminate any potential public sympathy to their cause.

We would later fully and privately brief the important political prisoners on what we were doing. Many of them added their efforts to our work. Others would help build new political structures on the Fringe worlds they would now inhabit.

Not all of the Clan approved of our political activity, so anyone actively involved in our movement lived on board the Zeus. Not everyone of the hundred or so people aboard was involved in our political activities, but anyone who actively disagreed had made a home on one of our brother ships, or onplanet. Not that they would betray us to Terran forces. We kept everything in the Family, and even if anyone were so inclined, they recognized they too, might pay the price for associating with traitors.

“Where are you taking us?” A thin dark-haired man, with a craggy face and sharp blue eyes had stood up. 

Samuel always waited for this moment. Whoever spoke first was generally one of the people that was the object of the rescue, and this occasion was no exception.

I recognized the man from the briefing holos. This was Leonard McCoy, a noted surgeon, who had managed to contact the underground with details of a new and frightening experiment by the Terran government in population control techniques.

“A neutral planet,” Samuel said. “Well out of the sphere of Terran influence.”

“A Human planet?” McCoy's voice was hesitant; he had focused his gaze on Spock.

“Primarily, but with a small Andorian population as well.”

“Those are the blueskins?”

“Yes, and to them you'll be a pinkskin.” A smile quirked Samuel's face. 

“And what do you want from us in return?”

“Whatever you can tell us about the current goals of the Terran government. And, those of you who are able can find means of repaying us for expenses. That's not mandatory, by the way, but I know from experience most of you will want to find ways of continuing our work.”

Samuel continued talking, describing our goals and the basics of our organization. McCoy asked some cogent, insightful questions, and then several other voices chimed in, all expressing the usual concerns.

I tuned out. I'd heard it all before. I continued watching the blonde woman seated to across from Spock. 

Spock reached out for his teacup just as she reached for a carafe placed in the middle of the table. Their hands brushed together.

She snatched her hand back, and her shoulders—her whole body—hunched away from him. Disgust twisted her features. Her right hand rubbed at her left, as if to obliterate the contact with alien skin.

Spock too had drawn back. I saw him take in a quick breath, then he deliberately took a sip of tea and placed his cup back down in the precise space it had originally occupied.

I glanced around the immediate area. Several people had witnessed the incident, and their faces reflected a variety of emotions. Embarrassment. Unease. Distaste.

The blonde woman flushed a mottled red. She wrapped her fingers around her own cup, then took a quick glance at him—and at me.

I knew what my face must have revealed. She froze, then dipped her head and stared at her hands. My own hands were clenched into fists.

Spock's left hand made brief contact with my arm. He did what he almost never did—he projected a feeling of peace and calm that washed over my turbulent emotions like a soothing bath. I felt my breath and heartrate slow. I wasn't sure if I should be grateful for his help.

Samuel was making introductions of the Family members present. He didn't single Spock out in any way, merely mentioning his name as one of many in our company. Nevertheless, everyone stared at him when he was introduced, and Samuel—as always—had to repeat my name three times before anyone shifted their gaze to me.

We never told anyone that Spock was half human. All their high-flying ideals aside, some of them couldn't handle that information this early. Some never would. It was quite one thing to profess the equality of all beings, to entertain the radical thought of opening the Terran Federation to a true equality with aliens. It was another thing entirely, for humans indoctrinated their entire lives in Pure Human thought, to confront the reality. Most of them could handle the concept of business and technological dealings with aliens. Far fewer could stomach the idea of social, and particularly sexual contact. 

Far better for Spock to be perceived as truly alien. It made me glad, once again, to have been born a spacer, and not to suffer the stupid prejudices of the planetbound.

One of the women had her eyes on me the whole night. Despite her frank stare, her face had an almost-innocent quality, an innocence which contrasted with the wisps of pale hair, ragged from its prison cut, that dotted her head.

I felt a familiar stirring. This wouldn't be the first time I'd been attracted to one of the dissidents, and it probably wouldn't be the last. I liked women. I liked sex. I didn't like love. I didn't like entanglements. 

She'd be gone soon. It was easy to return her smile.

When dinner was over, I noticed she lingered a bit when she stepped away from the table, holding herself apart from the knots of people who were now standing, conversing. Several people left, Spock among them. I took the opportunity of stepping over to her.

“I'm Daniel.”

“I'm Janeth.”

I nodded. “Janeth Preston, correct?”

She smiled, a pretty smile; a flash of white teeth. Color had risen in her previously pale face. 

“You were arrested for your membership in the Liberty Party.” 

Janeth nodded. Her face shadowed with sadness. “Yes,” she whispered. “I had found some of the old, forbidden books. I read them, and it helped me understand why I just didn't seem to fit in—didn't seem to think about things the way I was supposed to, the way I had been taught. I met a man—someone I thought I could trust—did trust—and he told me about others who think like I do. We gathered—for meetings, for discussion—in abandoned places. But it's so difficult to truly be alone, to be private. We had heard of the Fringe worlds, of course, but none of us imagined leaving Terra. We wanted change, and we wanted it there. On Terra. Not somewhere out in space, where we'd be truly strangers.”

“Change always happens,” I said. “But not on Terra. You now have your life back, to live. Didn’t you ever think of going to one of the Colony worlds? Things can be freer out here. The Terran government has less control over people's lives.” I looked around. The room had emptied out. Her eyes shone as she looked up into mine, and her hand brushed against my fingers. I reached out and completed the contact, and she took a step closer to me.

“Daniel,” she said, her voice husky. “I know I should return to the dormitory... but could you show me your ship first?”

***

I hadn't expected Spock to be in our suite. I thought he'd be in the workroom, inspecting the lifetubes, repairing any that needed servicing. Yet there he was at the front room desk, surrounded by the workings of a navcomp.

He turned, and one eyebrow rose slightly as he noticed Janeth. He made a half-bow in her direction. “Ms. Preston.”

“... uh, Spock, was it?” 

I noticed the hesitation in her voice. A combination of fascination, fear and unease flickered over her features.

Spock's face held its usual well-schooled impassivity. “Yes.” He glanced in my direction. “I should return to the workroom. There's more to be done on the lifetubes.”

I was suddenly not sure I wanted Janeth to stay. “What about the navcomp?”

“I can finish that tomorrow.” He again nodded to Janeth; she returned his nod, her face carefully polite, but she stared at him as he walked out the door.

“What is he like—that alien?”

I shrugged. “Like most people, I guess. I've known him all my life.”

“Does he live on this ship?”

“Yes.”

“Are there any others?”

“Not on board now.”

“Isn't it... odd... to live with an alien?”

“No,” I said, beginning to be irritated. “He's just a guy. Like me.”

“But you hear so much...”

“I thought you wanted to think for yourself. Or are you just a Pure Human at heart?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I'm nothing like them.”

I laughed. Something cold flared in her eyes, and I saw the strength beneath the pretty facade. 

“And what Colony were you born on, that’s free of Pure Human thought?” she demanded.

“I was born in space.”

Her eyes widened, and she took a step closer to me. My cock jerked at her body heat; my hands wanted to feel the body beneath the formless jumpsuit she wore. “You must have seen many strange and interesting things,” she said in a low, throaty voice.

“Spacers do see a lot that grounders don’t.” I ran one hand through her short stubbly hair, felt the heat of her skull against the palm of my hand. “Did you ever want to leave Terra?”

“No. Never.” Her face displayed fear and sorrow. “Of all the things I hoped for for Terra, all the changes I wanted to see for my home—I expected to be there. It's hard to believe I'll be living the rest of my life on an alien planet.” 

“Better than dying as a slave at an asteroid mine.”

She nodded. “Yes. Much better than that. I just... never expected to be with strangers. Are there aliens, where we're going?”

“Probably.” 

She couldn't repress a shudder.

“Does that frighten you?”

“A little,” she whispered. “You hear so many stories...” She didn't bother to hide her fear or repulsion.

“You hear so many lies.”

Her gaze sharpened. “And of course you know the truth, out here among the stars.”

“Maybe we just have a different perspective.” I reached out and trailed one hand along her jawline. She hesitated, then leaned into my touch.

“Are there a lot of aliens? Where we’re going?” she whispered.

“Maybe.” I rested my other hand on one of her shoulders and let it drift lower. She pulled in a deep breath as my hand found and explored the soft contours of one breast. Even through the thick fabric, I felt her nipple harden.

“What kind of aliens?” she persisted. “What kind of alien is Spock?” She had leaned into my caresses; both of her hands reached to mold themselves against my shoulders.

“He's a Vulcan.”

I was tired of talking. She wasn’t. “I've never heard of that race.”

“I'm sure there's a lot of races you've never heard of.” I moved to kiss her. 

She allowed the briefest of contacts, then pulled back to look at me with smoldering eyes. “I've never seen an alien. I never thought I would. Is his world near Terra? Are his people—peaceful?” She glanced around the cramped quarters of the main room. “Does he live here? Spock?” 

“That's his room there. And that's mine.”

She glanced at his door, then at mine, then reached out and took my hand. “Show me.”

I led her to my room. To my bed. 

I’d talk to Samuel about her, after. She might be a spy. All of her questions—innocent enough—and yet…

If she was a spy—well, she didn’t have to worry about having her mind fucked. We weren’t like the Terran government. But we’d make sure she never had any opportunity to betray us to the Federation.

She threw a smile over her shoulder. Her hands found the openings to her jumpsuit. A moment later, it fell to the floor.

I didn't like her. I fucked her anyway. 

She'd be gone in a day or two. That was for the best. I only ever had sex with women I never planned to see again.

 

*****

I couldn't sleep that night. I couldn't sleep lots of nights. 

I left Janeth asleep in my bed, with a note on a padd in case she woke before I returned. I wouldn't want her to go out looking for me, and get lost. There'd be gossip. 

There would be gossip anyway; people had seen me leave with her. That was fine with me. But I'd prefer it if the gossip wasn't about my carelessness. I knew that, even if she went out, there was nothing important she could see, here in the habitat ring, and she couldn't go into any other portion of our ship. We had long ago security-coded every strategic area in the Zeus, and that had been before we started this political work. Space was full of dangers. 

Propelled by a restless energy, I stalked through the endless corridors of the habitat ring. I walked past sections of walls that were a blank silvery-grey, like the undecorated wall outside Spock's and my quarters. Other portions of the walls were painted according to the whims of the occupants in the cabin behind the metal; some done in plain flat colors, some decorated in abstract designs, some depicting spacescapes, landscapes, animals, people; the walls serving as metal canvasses for artwork created by adults and by children.

I wound up in the area of the habitat ring where my sister Sarah and my children lived. My kids had been adding details to the mural they'd been painting on the wall outside their living quarters. Fantastic beasts occupied a landscape filled with volcanoes; a black sky filled with ships loomed over the spiky mountains. The ships vaguely resembled the Leda and the Zeus. The ships weren't in proportion: the Leda, which in actuality fit neatly into the smaller docking bay, looked nearly as large as the Zeus in their artwork. Several people were wandering the landscape, having conversations or doing battle with various beasts. Most of the people had red hair, like my children and myself, but there were several who looked like Spock. 

My children were too young to remember the other Vulcans. But they'd heard lots of stories.

I gazed at one scene. A blonde woman held hands with a Vulcan man—Amanda and Sarek. And then there were the children, painted in the same style as the adults, but depicted half their size. A Vulcan boy was holding hands with a Vulcan girl. Spock and T'Pring. A human boy, with bright red hair, was sharing an embrace with a blonde human girl. Leora and myself. 

These had been recent additions by my daughter. She liked to splotch colors with her brush, and this portion of the mural was filled with her favorite pinks and greens. Sarah had been telling her tales of the old days. Mandy always had questions about her mother, but she knew better than to ask me about Leora. But Sarah... she could tell stories to Mandy and my sons that I'd never been able to share with my children. Sarah could tell them everything they wanted to know without the rage or pain that still filled me at these memories.

Years ago, Sarah had told me that time would heal my wounds. Sarah had lost as much or more in her life as I had in mine. Sometimes I hated her, that these losses seemed to matter so little to her. 

She'd been wrong. It was true that, with the passing of time, Leora's memory had grown fainter. I had destroyed all of her holos; what images others possessed of her they sensibly kept in their own quarters. If it hadn't been for Mandy, daily growing into her image, I might have forgotten the edges of what she'd looked like.

But my rage over her senseless death—that was as fresh as the day I'd learned she, and everyone else on Sarek’s ship, had been blasted into oblivion by a Terran battlecruiser.

I stared at the painted representation of Amanda, which, aside from hair color, looked nothing like her. 

“You hear so many stories...” Janeth had said.

“Talk is cheap.” Amanda had used that saying on a lot of occasions. I hadn't understood it, at first, as a child, nor had I understood the sardonic twist to her lips when she had used the phrase. Year by year, it had become clear why she and the other two Terran women who had married Vulcans, along with their halfling children, spent most of their time on Sarek's ship, the Kon Tahr.

Spacers were accustomed to aliens. Many humans had had sex with aliens. In places like Loris Town, where nothing was forbidden, sex with aliens was a prime attraction, the most forbidden of forbidden fruit. This wasn't even the first time a Terran had married an alien. There were other human/alien pairings in the Grayson Family, though none currently on the Zeus.

Nor was this the first time halfling children had been born. And you'd think the Grayson Family, removed from Terra by many generations, would have a different outlook from people indoctrinated in Pure Human thought from birth. But, sometime along the way, perhaps when I'd become a teen and discovered sex, I had finally begun noticing the way people reacted to Amanda, and to Spock. Seldom on the Zeus, and seldom by any of the true spacers. But we had regular visits to many of the onplanet Homes, and that was where I saw the looks and heard the whispers.

No, none of us believed in Pure Human thought, and yet, as Amanda said, talk was cheap. There were still enough people who believed we could have all the contact with aliens that we liked—as long as we didn't have sex with them. Have children with them. Live with them. Love them.

Even some of the Grayson Clan. But they were mostly onplanet. I never heard any grief against her from the spacers.

Amanda had heard them, and she tended to grow sarcastic and closed-off with these people. Spock certainly had heard them, but he was good at parhavt'hal. Nothing in either his face or his voice betrayed any reaction to anything that had been said about him.

Still, he was always just that fraction more tense after one of these incidents, and if we were practicing our piloting skills, his flying, usually daring, turned almost reckless. He would always quote the odds to prove he hadn't been careless at all. But he had been careless, and T'Pring and I had both known it.

Me—I got angry. I got into fights. Amanda was the closest thing to a mother I had, having raised me since I was 10 years old, after my parents were lost when their ship’s deflectors had failed at the wrong moment, and space debris had breached the hull. 

Amanda never gave me any grief about these fights; just cleaned me up, and agreed with me that people could be stupid some times.

I kept walking, plagued by too many thoughts, through corridors now dark and silent in ship's night. Finally, feeling tired, I headed back to my suite. If Spock had returned, his door was shut, and revealed nothing. Janeth was still there in my bed. She smiled sleepily and welcomed me back into her arms.

*****

I shipped out the next day on the Leda. It had been checked over by Erika and Miriam, and pronounced fit to fly. I had a legitimate cargo of spice and meds for Carson's World. I needed to spend some of my time making money, bringing in enough to support us, in between our other missions.

I went alone. Spock still looked overtired, and the work wasn't finished on refurbishing the lifetubes. At first he had insisted on going. We had gotten into a very calm, reasonable argument. Calm and reasonable on his part, that is. I would have lost that argument—the repair of the lifetubes be damned—but the primary navcomp had gone out on the Clytemnestra, and he was drafted into service on its repair.

I didn't say goodbye to Janeth. By the time I returned, she and the rest of the latest rescuees would be gone, transported by the Zeus to a safe home on one of the Fringe worlds, where they could formulate their future plans. I had told Samuel about my suspicions. She would be watched. And there was no offplanet travel, except for us, on the world to which she was being taken.

I didn't want to see her again. This way was best.

I was gone for two weeks. Chaos was in progress when I returned to my suite. Spock, always meticulous and neat—annoyingly meticulous and neat—tolerated an amazing amount of disorder whenever my twin sons came to visit.

The boys had taken over the main room; I had to step around Mark who was seated on the floor. He was deep into the workings of a disassembled food processor unit, and had scattered its component parts across half the floor. Spock and Aaron were huddled over a computer in the corner, discussing lines of programming code. 

My teenage sons looked briefly in my direction and immediately turned back to what they were doing, supremely bored with my presence. On the way to my cabin, I nearly knocked over a plate of mostly-eaten pizza that had been shoved next to the coffee unit. Spock glanced in my direction and raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you all right, Daniel?”

“Just tired.”

“Was it a difficult mission?”

“No. Completely routine.” 

“But you do not look well.”

“The usual. I couldn't sleep all that well. But I'm fine.”

Spock's expression told me he clearly thought I was a liar, but he accepted my words and turned back to the computer panel in front of him.

I disappeared into my cabin. The last thing I was going to do was tell him—or anyone—about my recent nightmares.

But I was feeling uneasy about our upcoming trip to Quaoar. I had slept just fine on the way to Carson's World, but on the way back my sleep had been plagued with weird nightmare images, all to do with our next run to the Terran system.

We'd just have to be extra careful, I told myself. Sure, it was dangerous. Anything could go wrong. We were pushing our luck by keeping that base setup for as long as we had, but Quaoar was currently in an ideal position for the rescue trips. 

It wouldn’t be safe to use Quaoar for very much longer. The Terran dissidents had been placing small bases throughout the Kuiper belt, prefab installations, easily dissassembled or, if necessary, abandoned. We should remove the one from Quaoar shortly. I'd suggest we do just that, after Spock and I flew the next mission there.

I fell asleep almost immediately, but the same nightmares awoke me several times that night. Finally I couldn't sleep anymore; I went back to the main cabin.

The lights were down; the room neat and empty; all of Spock's computers shut off. I filled and refilled my coffee cup and stared at the walls, trying not to think of anything at all.

*****

I laughed about those nightmares, later. Because the mission went smooth and easy. We swung into the Kuiper Belt of the Terran system and slid the Leda onto the landing strip on Quaoar as smooth and easy as you please. There was no sign of any Interceptors within a million kilometers of our position. The transfer of the 58 lifetubes into our cargo hold went quickly and without incident, and bare hours after landing we undocked and headed back out into open space. We had been inside the Terran system for only half a solar day.

Each time we did a rescue we beat the odds—and Spock insisted on quoting them on each trip we took. We had been lucky. Every one of these trips risked exposure and death. Propaganda from the MOT—the Ministry of Truth—would have people believe that their clutches were everywhere, but in truth their Psis were few in number. Terra had more ships than they possessed Psis, but not that many more ships. They possessed a small fleet of Interceptors, and seven heavyweight warships. Chances were always good that none of these ships would be anywhere near our flight path. Spock liked to quote those odds, as well.

“You seem quite cheerful,” Spock observed in his deadpan way as we sat down for lunch in the tiny galley.

I laughed, and poured coffee. I would have loved some whiskey, but we never brought alcohol along on these missions. But there were always stim-sticks… “I had a bad feeling about this mission, before we left. I had a couple of nightmares about it, actually. And here it is—we've never had one go more smoothly or quickly.”

He looked at me with concern, and his voice dropped into a lower register. “Perhaps I should do these missions by myself in the future. This doesn't really require two people.”

“We can't just relay on automatics for something like this. One of us needs to be awake at all times.”

“I need less sleep than you do.” His voice, still calm, managed to project an argumentative stubbornness. “There's no need for you to face this sort of danger. It is different for me.”

I realized, then, what he was saying. “You mean it doesn't matter if you die.”

He inclined his head in a nod. “You know that is the truth. Why risk your life? Mine is already forfeit.”

I shook my head in denial. “Something will come up. Perhaps the Bond will weaken with time. Think about it. You and T'Pring were together constantly. Of course your Bond with her was strong. You spent your whole life with her. But you were only with Jim for a couple of days. The longer you're away from him, the better the chances are you'll be able to break the Bond. Maybe you'll find someone else, someone better than him. Or go back to what you were doing. Not on Tarsus, obviously, but there are brothels everywhere.”

“Perhaps.” He didn't sound convinced.

“Besides, Spock...” I paused, not sure how to say this. Not sure what I was going to say. “I can't give up doing this.” I still couldn't talk about it. Couldn't talk about how my wife's face still haunted me. How every person I rescued from Terra was one tiny gift to Leora's memory. And how nothing filled that empty space her death had left inside my soul. 

The same question devoured at me every day: why had I let Leora stay on the Kon Tahr, with T’Pring, instead of going with me and the children? The Vulcans had been so naïve—and we had all paid the price.

He dropped the subject, and began discussing a possible upgrade to the Leda's engines. I liked this topic a whole hell of a lot better than the last one, and soon we were deep into specifications.

It would take three more days to get back to where the Zeus was positioned. It was not currently in orbit around any star, but pursuing a circular course in space out in the Fringe. 

We passed the time playing chess and sim games. I took a lot of naps, and was not bothered by any dreams, while Spock, who truly did not need as much sleep as a human, tinkered with his computer projects in the aft chamber. He always had several computer projects going on simultaneously—some machines were in the process of being built; while others were complete and busy running data on various star phenomena he professed to find “fascinating”. I think he could have spent all of his time investigating strange interstellar phenomena and been happy. Though he would never have admitted to happiness.

I was up early the third day, and found Spock already in the galley. He was hunched over a mug of steaming tea, hands wrapped around it. His face was as pale as I'd ever seen it.

“Daniel, I need to... discuss... something with you.” 

I took my place opposite him. The unaccustomed hesitation in his voice made me uneasy. “What is it?”

He steepled his fingers together and stared at them, not me.

“I have noticed among human males...” His face flushed slightly green, and I tried not to grin at this visible sign of embarrassment. I'd teased him badly about this, the way the tips of his ears would get green when he was embarrassed, when we'd been boys, and I think those early comments of mine still rankled.

He began again. “Human males are aroused sexually quite easily. I often see the evidence. But I know it causes you no ill effect if you do not experience orgasm.”

“I wouldn't call a bad case of blue balls 'no ill effect'.”

He shot me a telling glance. “You do not die of that.”

I sobered immediately. “No. We don't.”

“I dreamed last night.” His voice had dropped to a mere whisper. “I dreamed I was with a woman. Copulating with a woman. When I awoke—my penis was hard.”

A bolt of pure fear filled me. “It can't be the pon farr yet—it's only been a few weeks.”

He raised anguished eyes. “I know this. But what happened to me last night is something I've never experienced.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I awoke at 2:03 am.” Even now, his propensity for time accuracy struck me as ridiculous, but definitely not something to laugh about. “My penis was erect. I had no warning of this, Daniel! There was no pain in my body. No fever. I thought I was somehow still dreaming, but I threw aside the blankets and took off my robe. I could not deny the evidence of my eyes.” 

His voice conveyed the absolute horror of the moment, and any levity I might have felt, any impulse to make a joke, died. “Have you ever dreamed about sex? Having sex?”

“I have never experienced such a dream.”

“It's very common for boys—and men—to have wet dreams.”

“I have heard of the term.” 

“Uh—” From where I sat, the table fully concealed his crotch from my view. “Did you come?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I tried not to do it—I know what pain it causes, to touch myself. It is always worse, if I touch myself. But I could not help doing it.”

“Did you come?” I repeated gently.

“Yes.” He lifted confused eyes to me. “Daniel, I do not understand. This has never happened to me before. Not like this.”

“How do you feel now?”

“As always.” His eyes reflected bewilderment.

“It's OK, then.”

“But is it impossible?”

“You are half human. Maybe that half is kicking in.”

“I have always been entirely Vulcan in this aspect of my physiology.”

“Had you ever seen this woman before?”

“Never.”

“Did you see or do anything else in this dream?”

“I was—fucking her. Hard. I was kissing her too. Her face. Her lips.”

I shifted uncomfortably, beginning to feel aroused myself. Settle down, I ordered my cock. This was serious business. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes.” He paused. “There was an odd sense in the dream—I was not in my own body.”

I nodded. It was beginning to make sense. “Who were you, Spock?”

He bent his forehead until it touched his steepled fingers. “Jim. I was Jim. She was his woman. He was enjoying her—and I felt the same as he.”

I took this in for a moment. “Since leaving Tarsus, have you ever been this aware of him before?”

“I have tried not to be aware of him. I know where the connection lies. Each day, when I meditate, I seek to build a shield around it, so I may not be aware of him.”

“Then why now?”

“I do not know.”

“He is a prostitute... if you get turned-on every time he has sex—”

“As I have explained, he does not actively pursue work of a sexual nature.”

“But he's not a monk.”

“No. I am certain of that.” Spock's bitter words dropped into silence. I couldn't figure out one more thing to say. Thoughts chased themselves around my brain in a futile pattern. Then Spock lifted his head, eyes filled with pain. “Do you dream of Leora?” His voice was a whisper.

I hesitated. “Yes. Sometimes. Do you dream of T'Pring?”

“Yes.” He looked at his hands. “Quite often, in years past. But now... Now I dream of him. And in dreams, all things are easy. But then I wake—”

He stood abruptly. “I should not speak of these things.” His face was as hard and closed as I'd ever seen it. He strode out of the galley, leaving me to stare at my coffee and wonder what the hell was happening now.

*****

It was a long day. The ship, pre-programmed, made another Jump, past the Tarsus system out into the Fringe. Two more Jumps, for safety's sake, and we could head back home.

Spock couldn't seem to settle to any task. We had no important work to do, between Jumps; there was nothing to distract him or focus his attention. We tried chess, but he played badly. He lost the first game. He quit halfway through the second game when one of his computers sounded a tone, alerting him that one of his observation projects had been correlated. He spent a couple of hours going through the data while I played sim games. I couldn't concentrate, either. He was restless, restless in a way that reminded me badly of pon farr. Despite his denials, I was convinced he was going back into pon farr, and now there would be no relief for him, except death.

I was very afraid I would have to kill him.

He didn't bother eating dinner, and that was another bad sign. He always stopped eating in the early stages of pon farr.

“Spock...” We had to talk about this, even if neither one of us wanted to.

He transferred his gaze from his untouched plate to my face. He didn't bother to conceal the naked pain in his eyes.

“Is it the pon farr?”

The words dropped like lead between us.

“No.” His voice was certain, absolute.

“Then what's wrong?” I could hear the anger in my voice. I shouldn't be angry with him. But I was.

His gaze seemed to retreat inward. “It's Jim. There's something wrong with him.”

“What are you sensing?”

“I do not know.” He shook his head once, then again—violently—as if trying to shake something off his body. His eyes squeezed shut in ferocious concentration. “He is not—not well.” He swallowed. “There is fear. There is anger. There is a great sense of loss.”

“What's happening to him?”

“I do not know, Daniel!” His voice rose to a shout; he leaped to his feet. Naked anger distorted his features. He leaned forward to stare into my face. “I do not know.” 

I stood up slowly. Quick, uncontrolled anger—also a symptom of pon farr.

He seemed to realize this. Emotion drained from him; he flushed with embarrassment and then composed his features into their usual lack of expression. He settled back into his chair and twisted his fingers together. “Something has happened to him. Something important. Dangerous. But what it is—what he is thinking—I cannot access his thoughts. I cannot do that, without touching him. You know that.”

I didn't know any such thing. When he and T'Pring had piloted ships together, they had coordinated with each other as if they were one being. They didn't need to be touching. They didn't even need to be close to each other. All of the Bonded Vulcan couples I had known had acted as if they could have direct access to their mate's mind, on demand.

I didn't point this out. That had nothing to do with what was happening to him now. How could he have any sort of mental closeness with this Jim, this total stranger who now held the key to his life?

We went through the next Jump, and it was pure routine. But Spock seemed even more edgy, shifting and fidgeting as if he itched all over. 

One more Jump. I didn't even try to get any sleep. I was wrestling with a decision. Should we even return to the Zeus? If Spock was going into pon farr—if he had to die—if I had to kill him—why return? Ever? If he died, I would disappear into the Fringe again, just as I had done all those years ago, after Leora’s death. But I wouldn't return this time. 

Spock was the last link to the life I had had before—the life I thought belonged to me, by right. He was the only person who truly understood how it had been. Sarah doesn’t understand anything at all. My children—gods help me, they never knew her, and I’ve never really tried to know them. 

With Spock gone, there would be nothing left.

Spock was working at his computers as if his life depended on it. His hands were shaking. I could see the way he paused every few minutes to clasp his fingers together tightly, to bow his head and squeeze his eyes shut, to become very still, as if he were listening to an interior voice.

I tried not to look at him, but he caught me at it anyway. He didn't bother to raise an eyebrow, and that told me, as much as anything else, something was very wrong. I pretended to play sim games, but kept the sound off. I didn't need the computer to tell me I was playing at the level of an intermediate; way below my usual expertise. 

Hours dragged by. We both grew more tense with every endless second. Something was going to happen. Soon. 

I itched to take action—but there was nothing I could do except live through the stressed silence surrounding us.

Spock abruptly got to his feet. His face had gone deathly pale, his gaze focused elsewhere—not on me, not on the Leda. 

Adrenaline hit my veins. I stopped myself from shaking him. “What is it?”

“He is...” Spock seemed to struggle for breath for a moment. “He is close by.”

“Who is? Jim?”

“Yes.” His voice was a low hiss.

“We're parsecs from Tarsus!”

He looked at me, his eyes burning. “He is no longer on Tarsus. He is in space. And getting closer.”

An alarm screeched. We raced to the cockpit and fell into our seats, staring in astonishment at the image on our screen. The image of a ship on fast approach—heading directly toward us.

“It's an Interceptor! What the hell—?”

An Interceptor! We occasionally ran into Fed Patrol ships, even out in the Fringe. They were always looking for smugglers and other Illegals. But Terra didn't have the budget to send out an Interceptor this far, not on a petty smuggler hunt. Not for people like us. What the hell did this mean?

Our speaker crackled to life. “Hailing Leda. You are ordered to cut engine power.” 

“They know our name! How in hell do they know our name?”

I threw a glance at Spock, whose face was set in grim lines. He concentrated on his instrumentation. “Tglon Maneuver,” he said.

I nodded. We'd long since discussed and code-phrased possible escape routes. Spock’s hands touched the controls and the Leda instantly responded. The hailer crackled with shouted demands.

We were very near The Maze—an area of space littered with thousands of unstable planetary fragments, some seeded with mines left over from some nameless alien war millennia ago. We'd escaped before from Patrol Ships by flying through the Maze. An Interceptor was faster than a Patrol ship, but it was also larger. With luck, their disadvantage of size would cancel out their advantage of speed.

“There on the right—there—azimuth 4!” My gaze was glued to the sensor array. At the controls, Spock executed maneuvers with inhuman speed, piloting the Leda in a complex evasive pattern to elude the Interceptor, which had approached at frightening speed.

We dove into the Maze, careening past fragments the size of our ship. Spock operated the controls with the precision of micro surgery. He knew how to make the Leda glide and twist and damn near defy the laws of physics. The Leda shot past planetary fragments ranging from the size of our ship all the way up to objects with the mass of small moons.

Spock's hands never left the controls; the monitor embedded in the control panel shifted in a constantly changing display. “They're keeping up with us.”

That wasn't unexpected. Most patrol ships could make it partially into the Maze, but Spock's responses were always faster. We always outran them and we had literally thousands of escape routes. The sensory distortions of this area of space would veil our pursuer's sensors. 

Spock was executing the piloting flawlessly. Blood raced in my veins as I stayed focused on the sensors. Objects large enough to destroy us in a nanosecond whizzed past, impossibly close, as Spock took every advantage of our knowledge of the Maze to lose our pursuer.

I checked the sensors again. “They're keeping up with us!” No Patrol ship had ever followed us this far before. And a larger Interceptor should have fallen back by now.

I risked a glance away from my sensors to glance at Spock. Adrenaline surged. His face was contorted, as if he were in pain, and his hands were white-knuckled at the controls.

“What is it?” I demanded.

He shook his head in a tiny spasmodic jerk and I watched with horror as his eyes squeezed shut.

All warning alarms went off.

“Spock! The controls!”

His attention snapped back to his board. He touched a control; the ship veered hard starboard, barely missing the metallic hulk of a mine.

I checked our sensors again. Our pursuer was still with us, easily evading each obstacle that Spock seemed to be having such difficulty in avoiding.

His face had gone dead white. He seemed to be listening to something.

“What is it?” I knew that amazing Vulcan hearing could detect an engine anomaly as fast—faster—than our instrumentation.

“N-nothing.” Spock's speech was hesitant, slurred, and I gave him a sharp glance.

Spock raised a quizzical eyebrow. “For a moment, I—” 

Then he shut his eyes again. I reached over and grabbed his arm, shaking him. “What's wrong?”

“I do not know,” he whispered. “I feel—”

The proximity alarm blared, and his attention snapped back to the control panel. His fingers danced over the keypadd, faster than any human could move. The Leda veered and yawed through impossibly close encounters with the drifting space debris. Ship's gravity held, keeping us protected from the worst of the g-forces as the ship hurtled at nearly warp speed through mines, debris and chunks of rock as large as mountains.

Like the one ahead. And we weren't veering off.

“Spock!” He was staring off into space, face as blank as that of an unconscious man.

At my voice, and the frantic blaring of the alarms, his attention snapped back to the control panel, and he pulled the ship up and over the pitted monstrosity with what seemed like inches to spare.

“Spock—”

“Don't—talk,” he gritted. He didn't look at me, but kept his attention focused on the control panel. He was sweating now, something he never did, except in pon farr.

I'd take the controls, if I could, but we couldn't switch now—it would mean our instant death. There was absolutely nothing I could do. Objects whipped past us; the Leda coming closer to hazards than it had ever been. The proximity alarms screeched constantly. I kept silent, and watched the sensors as we went further into the Maze, the Interceptor on our ass every klick of the way.

“Leda, stop evading pursuit!” The speaker crackled again.

“Fuck off!” I cut the sound.

I risked another glance at Spock. His teeth were set, attention entirely focused on the board. His hands appeared steady, but a tic had developed in his jaw.

We were almost through the Maze, the space debris and the scattering of planetesmals and mines thinning out, an infinity of open space ahead.

The Interceptor was still with us. For the first time the thought occurred to me—we weren't going to make it this time. Spock and I and those 58 unfortunate people in the hold would die here in space, or worse, be shipped off to some hellhole prison.

We still had shock weaponry. I began to plot strategy.

“Spock, as soon as we leave the Maze, hard to port and azimuth 270.5”

He gave no indication he had heard me, but the ship still responded to his touch. I only prayed he had heard my instructions and would follow them. It was our only chance.

We shot out into normal space and Spock executed my orders precisely. We veered port and up then reversed as soon as we cleared the last of the debris. We now were up and behind the point of our own emergence from the Maze. My hands gripped the weapons’ targeting controls, ready to lock onto the Interceptor ship as they emerged. Their targeting sensors wouldn't recover until they'd cleared the Maze. In that time I could target and destroy them. It was the only chance we had. Shock weaponry was nothing against the power of a phaser-equipped Interceptor; we could never win in a direct battle.

The Interceptor shot out of the Maze, and instantly compensated for our maneuver, veering up and beyond and out of our range smoothly.

Spock abruptly locked the controls for a 20 second delay before the next leap, and ripped off his safety harness.

“Spock, what—”

“They're in my head! Take the controls!” he shouted, and grabbed for the medical kit.

I retracted my own harness and jumped into his vacated seat, turning back to him in time to see him pull out a hypo, scattering the rest of the contents of the medkit to the floor.

“After this leap, choose a new course—don't tell me what it is!” he gasped. He was already in the nav seat, fastening the safety harness. I nearly tore my harness off when he pressed the hypo to his arm, but a flash/beep warned me we were about to Jump, and I stayed in my seat, heart pounding. 

“What are you doing?” I shouted. Spock had fallen back in the safety harness, his eyes fluttering shut, but they snapped open at my words. “GO!” he shouted, then collapsed against the harness. The hypo fell from his hand and clattered to the deck.

The Interceptor had turned and was closing the distance at incredible speed. Then Spock's preprogrammed Leap took us; the Leda shuddered and shifted with the transition to FTL speed. Striated distortions of warped space streaked the monitor with twisted lines of colored light. The ship seemed to go silent for an eternity, and then with another shift and shudder we were elsewhere.

Normal space reappeared, and I began programming a new warp leap. In that instant the impossible happened. The Interceptor flashed into normal space—and fired.

The Leda shuddered under the phaser fire, and power levels plummeted. Alarms sounded everywhere, signaling systems failures. There was no chance of going back to warp. “Fuck!” I shouted. How the fuck had they followed us? They couldn't possibly have followed us!

The Leda suddenly slammed sideways. They had phasers and shockweapon-resistant shields. And now we had nothing left to fight with. The telltales showed our weaponry systems had been destroyed.

The speakers flashed again. I remembered I had cut the sound and, with a curse, I put the hailer back on.

“Leda, signal your surrender and set autopilot for landing on Darius IV. If we do not have sensory confirmation of set course in 90 seconds, we will destroy you.” The voice crackling through the hailer was harsh, authoritarian. 

I looked at Spock, unconscious in his chair, his body held upright only by his safety harness. I thought of overloading the engines and destroying the Leda. 

I thought of the handgun strapped to my side. There was always one more chance.

I set the auto course and put on the hailer. “Leda surrenders.”

It took only a few minutes for the Leda, on autopilot, to reach Darius IV. The Interceptor stayed with us in tight escort position. Spock often chose to Leap to this system on our way back from Terran missions; it was a good final checkpoint to check our systems before heading home. I unhooked myself from the safety harness and went to check on Spock. His breathing was shallow; his pulse as rapid as it always was. I checked the contents of the hypo he had injected himself with. Hydrazalen, a strong sedative. I don't know if he'd ever taken this before, or if he'd just injected himself on a wild guess that this would work on his physiology and not kill him or trigger a manic state.

I secured myself back in the pilot's chair as the Leda slipped easily into the atmosphere of Darius IV. The planet was barely habitable for humans. It had a breathable atmosphere, but the three continents were locked into the glaciation of an ice age. The Interceptor paced us, staying in exact formation as if attached to us with a tractor beam. 

We were surrounded by atmospheric haze and cloud cover. Air currents buffeted us; the Leda moved gracelessly, lurching then falling in sudden sharp drops. A sudden wobble starboard and a simultaneous plunge straight down set off another alarm. Lights flashed all across the control panel. Cursing, I hit the manual controls, half-expecting a threat or demand from the Interceptor. But they were silent. They knew they had us now, and they clearly had no need to worry about the details. Their sensors would tell them what I already knew: there'd been damage to the Leda's stabilizers; we were in for a rough ride.

I swallowed. We were dead anyway. But if we survived the landing, I still had the handgun.

Snow capped mountain peaks broke through the clouds. I adjusted course, sailing over the mountain tops and down and beyond to a wide flat tundra plain below. Then sleet sheeted against our viewer; there was only sensor visibility now. I watched the instruments indicating approaching ground. We were moving too fast. We were coming in too steeply. If I couldn't get control back—

Spock stirred in his chair. I heard him gasp and turned to see him put a hand to a temple. “No.” He rolled against the security straps, convulsing, his face contorting with anguish. His eyes remained tightly closed. Both hands clutched his head.

Drug-induced seizure? I didn't know, and couldn't check. If I couldn't get the Leda on a better landing approach, it wouldn't matter.

My fingers danced across the controls. The Leda responded sluggishly, careening, yawing from one side to the other, tossed like a leaf by strong atmospheric currents. The Interceptor was still on our tail, but it had pulled back a bit. They had to be aware of our situation, but there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it now.

The Leda impacted snow-covered land. It bumped and jolted, screeching across the uneven surface. I fired forward thrusters to impede our momentum. Metal groaned and cracked under the strain. The safety harness held me bruisingly tight as metal buckled, alarms howled, and the telltales flickered and went out. 

A loud boom rocked the cabin as something exploded in a shower of sparks. I smelled smoke and fought panic as I wrestled with the controls, but there was no response. The ship raced across the snow-covered ground at dizzying speed. The monitor displayed a white spray of broken ice and snow. Visibility was zero.

I felt every bump and jolt as the Leda tore herself apart, plowing through a vast plain of snow. Finally, we were motionless. I sat in the pilot's chair, half numb, aware of the gun near my right hand. I reached out and took it.

The sensor compartment shattered in a burst of light and sound that left me blind and deaf. I choked on fumes and blinked back tears as I pulled at the release on the security straps. Vision clearing, I leaped to my feet and hit the safeties on the control panel. The automatics had failed, but an instant later fire retardant spewed through the cabin.

I went to Spock. His eyes had opened wide, but he didn't seem to see me. I undid his safety harness, but his body remained limp.

“Spock.”

Still looking at me with that blank, empty gaze, he whispered hoarsely, “He's here. She's here.”

I didn't understand what he meant, but his words chilled me.

Through the groaning and ticking of stressed metal and the hiss and crackling of the fire, I heard sound outside.

The door vanished in red phaser glare, and icy air rushed in. I angled my weapon at the door, but no one appeared. Hard white light glared across the darkened cabin. Flames flickered in the background, making it even more difficult for me to try to see what was beyond the doorway.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then something hit the deck and exploded with a screech and a blinding light. Acrid smoke filled my nostrils. Blinded, I threw myself back against the bulkhead. Bringing up my gun, dazzled by the glare, deafened by the sound, I hesitated. Disoriented as I was, I could shoot Spock by mistake.

Then, the whine of phaser fire echoed in the cabin. I heard an organic thump as something hit the deck. Spock.

Then something hit me. Blackness.

*****

Every muscle in my body protested as I moved, trying to find a better position. Hard cold metal met my gaze when I opened my eyes. I realized I was lying face-down on a ship's unadorned floor.

Groaning, I rolled over onto my side and found myself staring at a grey metal wall. A dull pounding rocked my head; a nasty taste filled my mouth. A soft sound caught my attention. I managed to roll back in the other direction.

Spock was collapsed in a heap in one corner. 

We weren't alone.

I sat up abruptly, and immediately regretted it. My stomach lurched; it was all I could do not to heave up what little I'd had to eat.

In another corner of the room, a man sat. He was staring intently at Spock. As I stirred, his gaze swung to me, and his hands moved, almost as if he were reaching for a weapon. He was dressed in stripped-down prisoner's gear, a plain grey coverall. I got the impression of light brown hair and a handsome face marred by bruising. Hazel eyes focused on me, filled with questions.

I fought off another bout of queasiness. I'd never been phaser-stunned, but I'd certainly heard of the effects from those who had had this experience. I didn't make it to my feet, but I could still crawl, and I did.

Spock's face was nearly as pale as the cold metal floor. I touched his throat, then, reassured by the feel of that fast pulse, I settled back on my heels. Stripping off my black pilot's jacket, I took a moment to check through the pockets. I wasn't surprised to find them empty of weaponry, tools and datachips. 

My jacket was stiffened in places with contrasting silver leather strips; it was awkward to fold, and it made for a lumpy pillow. I lifted Spock's head gently, and then the other man was beside me. He slid my makeshift pillow beneath Spock's head as I settled Spock into what I hoped was a comfortable position.

He lifted one hand—made an aborted gesture towards Spock's face—then grabbed his hand with his other hand, almost as if the first had moved toward Spock without his volition. His gaze locked with mine.

“Jim,” I whispered in startled comprehension.

“Jim. Yes, of course.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “My name is James Tiberius Kirk. And you are?” he demanded.

“I don't need to tell you anything.” My voice was hard with hate. This was obviously a trap. Jim's presence here told me everything I needed to know.

“No.” He laughed again, a sound without any mirth. “No, you don't. But you will tell her everything. I'd still like to know, though. Who are you?”

“Her?” I asked.

“Her name is Selene. You'll be meeting her shortly. She's from the Ministry of Truth.”

Psi. Panic hammered at my heart. “What is a Psi doing here? We can't possibly be that important. We're just a couple of smugglers.” 

A hard light showed in Kirk's hazel eyes. “You know you're not just anything. But if it's any consolation to you, she didn't come here for you. She came to Tarsus for me.”

“For you. One of the Flowers in Madame Rilka's palace.”

He reacted to the sarcasm in my voice by ignoring it. He stopped looking at me, and focused again on Spock. But his voice held pride and anger as he continued. “There are those on Tarsus who don't care for Kodos. We had everything planned. We had access to his palace; we knew his schedule. All we had to do was eliminate him.”

“All?” I asked ironically. “So were you going to be Kodos' replacement? Another of Terra's petty little planetary dictators?”

He focused his intent hazel eyes on me. “We had other plans. Other ideas. There are different ways of government—ways which give freedom and choice to the people.”

I laughed. “Yes, the Administrator is certainly going to go along with your naïve plans.” But an unwelcome thought intruded—was every action I had ever taken against the Terran Federation as childishly naïve as a plot by a whore to depose Kodos?

Kirk smiled. Even dirty and bruised, I recognized the force of his personality. “Yes. Why not? We figured we could even make peace with the Terran government. Tarsus is far enough away that Kodos had free reign. Why not us? Particularly if we controlled the planetary weapons systems.”

“A revolution,” I murmured, trying not to be impressed with the man's ambition. “So what happened?” 

“Someone betrayed us. I don't know who.” His voice indicated that he badly wanted to get his hands on the traitor. “Kodos knew about the plan. We walked right into a trap. Most of us were killed by his guards, but he made sure to keep some of us alive. And he had sent to Terra for a Psi as soon as he learned about our plans. The MOT sent her out on their fastest Interceptor. Kodos wanted all the details of our plan. But when she reached into my mind, she found something a lot more interesting than a planned coup.”

His gaze transferred itself back to Spock. I felt the energy between them, as clearly as if it were visible, as strong as gravitational attraction. The prisoner's garb didn't hide the man's erection.

The sight infuriated me. “So you led her to us.”

“It wasn't my idea. But she cut through my mind like a laser through bone.” He shifted another inch closer to Spock, then focused the force of his personality back on me. “You might as well tell me who are you.”

What the hell difference did it make anyway? “Daniel Grayson.”

“I've heard of you. Rilka says you set up all of Spock's visits. You're a customer, too. You like Orion women, don't you?”

“You know your clientele well.” I considered the pleasure of adding to the bruises on Kirk's face.

He looked back at Spock, seemingly unable to keep his gaze away from him for more than moments at a time, as attracted to the Vulcan as iron to a magnet. I saw a complex mix of emotion cross his face in a split second: fear, fascination, concern, repulsion. His voice softened. “And who is he?”

“His name is Spock.”

“Yes. So he said.” He sat for a moment, watching Spock breathe. “What is he?”

“His people are unknown to Terra.”

“Why is he unconscious?”

“He figured out you—or someone—was following us. He hypoed himself with a sedative. I guess he figured if he was unconscious you wouldn't be able to follow him.”

“So that's what happened.” Kirk's eyes grew distant. “She was in my mind, and the pilot's mind. I felt her—fingers—holding tight to—she found him, somehow, through my mind. And then his mind went—dark. But it didn't matter.” His gaze focused again. “She already had you.”

“I would never have believed something like that was possible.”

“Why?” He fixed me with a stare. “Wouldn't he be able to do the same?”

“No. It doesn't work that way. Not for him.”

“How long have you known him?” His face revealed a fierceness, a hunger, an intense need. One of his hands strayed back in Spock's direction, then closed into a fist, inches from Spock's unconscious face.

“All my life.”

“What did he do to me?”

“It wasn't intentional.”

“He's psi.”

“Not in the way you understand it. Not in the way most humans understand it. His people are all telepaths.”

Open disgust and astonishment twisted Jim's face. “All Psi?”

“It's natural for them.” 

He suddenly closed the two foot gap between us. Grabbing my shoulders, he thrust his face to within inches of mine. “Has he taken over your mind, as well?”

I broke his hold on me in one swift movement; I was on my feet a second later. He stood, as well, and a dangerous light flared in his eyes. “You're going to tell me what I want to know.” He didn't need to raise his voice to make his threat plain.

“Do you think you—one of Rilka's Flowers—can take me?” My fists ached to hit his flesh.

For reply, he closed the gap between us.

At that instant, booted feet sent metallic echoes down the corridor. We broke the lock of our gaze to stare at the corridor beyond the prison door's force wall. Three black-uniformed people were approaching.

I felt the ice touch my skin, and tried to shake off my fear. I tried to remember everything Spock had ever taught me about concealing emotion. I had only ever used this skill in playing poker before, but now I found myself scrambling to keep my face impassive, to keep from revealing my fear.

I don't know why I felt it was so important to not reveal what I was feeling. It wouldn't make any difference. The psi would see right through me.

And here she was.

Flanked by two guards who dwarfed her in both height and size, her presence still diminished them to nothing. 

She was several inches shorter than either myself or Spock, and yet she seemed to loom over me. Long straight pale hair floated down past her waist, a blonde so white there were only glints of gold in the snowy mass. It was a startling contrast to her MOT uniform—black jacket, trousers and boots. The lack of color was relieved only by the silver wolf's head insignia at her throat, and the stylized lightning bolts at her wrists. The harshness of the black uniform emphasized the delicate bones of her face and her hands.

Her gaze lingered on Spock, who was still lying unconscious on the floor. No trace of expression marred her face, which was beautiful in the way that carved ice can be beautiful.

She turned that face toward me. Her eyes, the color of blue shadows in snow, held no human expression at all. Vertigo seized me; I couldn't look away. That gaze held me as securely as a tractor beam; without will, I felt myself step forward to within a fraction of an inch of the force field. It hissed in warning.

I felt it then, the first trace of something in my mind. An image of maggots worming their way through meat hit me; I nearly threw up at the feel of that poisonous intrusion into my thoughts.

She smiled. She nodded.

One guard deactivated the force field, grabbed my arm and dragged me into the corridor. The second guard reactivated the force field behind me. She strode down the corridor, a slight figure in black, her cloud of pale hair drifting behind her. Hard fingers were still locked into my mind. Who is he? What is he? Who are you?

The questions began coming even before the guards strapped me down in a seat in the control room. I didn't speak. I didn't have to.

She had every answer as she asked the question. And she knew I was afraid. Knew the depths of my fear.

And relished it. 

Her fingers twisted into my soul and found the scarred knot that had curled itself around Leora's memory. She squeezed.

I screamed. She smiled.

A harsh hand clawed through my mind. Disoriented. Falling. A hollow cold emptiness—a suffocating darkness lit by flashes of sensory distortion—radical waves of sound and vision shortcircuited together. 

Shockwaves of emotion struck me. Despair, as she devoured my memories. Fear. She learned about Spock. She sucked that information greedily from my mind, avid for every detail. I could feel myself struggling against the bonds that held me. I could hear her laughing as she teased out every thread of information relating to his existence. All my memories of Spock and T'Pring were scrutinized in rapid progression, like images flashing across a monitor. Spock and T'Pring, piloting the Leda. Extending their hands to each other, touching two fingers together. The tiny smiles they permitted themselves to show each other, not needing spoken words to communicate.

Faster, faster. The Psi leeched out every thought, scanning, learning. I sensed a satisfied amazement from her, a gloating sense that here was something she could use.

T'Pring, holding Mark and Aaron in her arms. Spock, holding Mandy. Leora, my hand in hers.

Dead. Stop. Blank.

Bloated on images of Spock, Selene turned her attention to me.

She searched out everything about the Family—who we were, where our Ships and Homes were. 

Hate, pure and lethal, flamed in my mind. She knew about my children. If I could reach her, I would kill her.

Then, emptiness. The tendrils clawed into my brain relaxed, withdrew, searching out areas of pain as they departed.

Darkness.


	3. James Tiberius Kirk

Daniel Grayson's face went white beneath its sprinkling of freckles when Selene confronted him. Kirk kept to the back part of the cell when the guards took Daniel away, focusing his gaze and attention on the grey metal wall, trying to think of absolutely nothing, not wanting to attract the psi's attention. 

He waited until their bootheels receded into silence before turning to the unconscious alien. He sat by the man's side, and studied the angular face. Spock's pale skin was the color of ash. The strange upward sweep of the eyebrows mirrored the high cheekbones. The jawline was strong; the mouth invited his kiss. He resisted that impulse, but gave in to another and brushed the long gleaming black hair away from the side of the alien's face, revealing a pointed ear.

Childhood stories filled his mind—elves, faeries, Old Ones. He had heard many stories, told in darkness, of the eldritch beings who had haunted Terra for millennia. These children's tales had hitched rides on human spacecraft and had mutated into new stories on Tarsus. Humans occupied only a small portion of Tarsus' forbidding surface; there were forest vastnesses and claw-peaked mountains on this world's continents, land uninhabited by humans but populated with strange tales of alien creatures, some of which bore the features of Old Terran legend.

He traced the point of one of Spock's ears with an index finger. The fever-heat of the skin startled him, though he should have remembered that heat. He had been only too well acquainted with it, a few weeks ago. 

The alien stirred and muttered, then subsided again into unconsciousness. Still, Kirk's hand hovered over that sharply-angled face, compelled to touch that skin. The attraction he felt for this man was as strong as magnetism. It was as if his hands needed to touch the other man's skin, needed to find some kind of attachment to the other man's face. 

This need warred with an instinctive and angry repulsion. This alien had done something to him; something he couldn't understand. “In the old days, they called it witchcraft, sorcery.” He studied Spock's unconscious features, then leaned forward to whisper into that alien ear. “Did you put a spell on me? Is that what you did to me, you bastard?”

Spock's body shuddered; he gasped for breath and Kirk flinched away. But Spock settled into stillness again, and Kirk continued his examination of the other man's body. Long, powerful limbs and torso were concealed beneath spacer's clothing, that anonymous conglomeration of styles and fabrics that both revealed and erased individuality.

Why was he studying Spock like this? There was no mystery about the flesh concealed beneath the clothing. Spock's body was that of a dancer—athletic, strong, deceptively slender. He knew its touch. He knew the rough scratch of the man's body hair, the implacable hardness of his cock. He remembered what it had felt like to have that cock crammed up his ass. He knew what it was like to fuck this man, to plunge into the hot depths of that alien body. 

Did you addict me somehow? Is there some quality, some property to your skin, your sweat, your cum, that has made it impossible for me to have sex with anyone else without seeing your face, hearing your voice? I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop wanting—above everything else—the only part of you I've never felt. 

The touch of your hands.

He contemplated one of those long-fingered hands, lying lax upon the deck. His fingers hesitated a fraction of an inch above that hand. He froze, then pulled his hand away, forcing both of his hands against the floor behind his back. He would not make that connection to this man's flesh. Still, his imagination pictured it: those long fingers clasped tightly around his own; touching him, wrapping themselves around his cock; resting in a longed-for configuration on his face...

Psi.

Anger and fear surged through him. Reacting to a threat not fully understood, he pushed himself away from Spock until he ended up with his back against the furthest wall. 

Staring at Spock's face, now in profile, he thought about the night he'd met this man. For the thousandth time he regretted accepting the amazing amount of money Spock had offered for his services. But how could he possibly have refused a fee of that size? It had been an astounding windfall. The resources for their political plans had been drained dry by the purchase of the transport technology, which had been crucial to their plan to invade Kodos' palace. They'd needed more funds, and when this alien had offered so much money for just three days of sex, he hadn't hesitated. Why would he? Rilka had assured him that he was safe; that Seela and Robert had serviced him in the past and suffered no ill effect. There was no reason to refuse, and in truth, he had never considered turning down this customer.

The constant sex Spock had required had been tiring and had certainly left him sore, but there hadn't been any other problems. There was no need for any elaborate scenarios, none of the spoken or holographic fantasies that many needed to enhance their enjoyment. Rilka had told him the bondage was there for Kirk's protection, not to fulfill any sexual need or fantasy of Spock's. There had been nothing that required any additional work from him at all. All he had had to do was get fucked—repeatedly. It should have been the easiest money he'd ever made.

He hadn't counted on their conversations about space, about the stars. He hadn't counted on how he would react to Spock's stories about space travel and their implications: the freedom to travel, to explore, to pursue interests for their own sake. 

He knew he'd let a little bit of his professional persona slip. He wasn't used to conversing with clients—on nonsexual topics, at least. And the last thing he would have ever expected was to find himself talking with someone who was living the life he'd dreamed about as a boy. Not just the life of a spacer—he'd met plenty of those before. But the life of someone who saw beyond the basics of trade, illicit or otherwise—the life of someone who dreamed... For those few moments, he had stopped seeing Spock as just another customer, even stopped seeing him as an alien, and instead seen him as another man. A man who, for a brief period of time, had opened a window into Kirk's dreams and shown him the reality which lay beyond.

“I tried to fuck your memory out of my head.” Even with Edi, who had long been his favorite for friendly sex, he'd been unable to erase this man from his thoughts. He could come, that wasn't a problem, but it was Spock's face he saw, no matter who he was fucking. Even with a limp cock and drained balls he'd been left unsatisfied. His whole being had been filled with an unassuaged yearning—as well as a clear beacon as to where the yearning was directed. He'd been driven to have sex with Edi, even the night before the attempted coup, obsessed by it even among the demands of his other plans. Had all he worked for, all the time and effort to bring down Kodos, been compromised—destroyed—by his obsession for this alien?

The alien groaned, then said something unintelligible. His face contorted into a pained grimace. One long-fingered hand pressed itself against the side of his face, massaging his temple.

Kirk kept his back against the wall and knotted his fingers together, fighting against the temptation to return to Spock's side, to reach out, to touch the alien skin, to soothe Spock's pain, to make some kind of connection.

Spock was still pale, but a faint greenish tinge underlay the ashy tone of his skin. He took in a long deep breath and turned his head slightly to one side. The strangely-tinted eyelids opened, and he looked directly at Kirk.

The alien face registered confusion and discomfort for a moment, then expressions of astonishment, joy and fear chased themselves across his features. Spock sat up, supporting himself by leaning on his arms. Dark eyes regarded Kirk. His expression went blank.

“Jim.” Spock's deep voice was as Kirk remembered it, but now it held no inflection or emotion.

“Spock.”

Spock looked around their tiny barren chamber, then focused his attention on the seemingly-open door. “Force field?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we?”

“On the Terran Interceptor ship Nighthawk.”

Spock took another look around the prison cell, as if to assure himself they were truly alone. “Where is Daniel?”

“They took him to be questioned.”

Fear flared in the dark eyes. “She will go into his mind...” He focused his gaze intently on Kirk. “Why are you here?”

“In this cell?” Kirk heard the irony in his words. “Why don't you read my mind?” His tone was ugly.

Spock swallowed. “I will not do that without your permission.”

Kirk shrugged his disbelief. “I'm a prisoner. Just like you.”

An eyebrow lifted. “You followed me through the Maze. Why?”

“That wasn't me—or rather, if it was left up to me, I would never have followed you anywhere.” He saw immediately his deliberately cruel comment had struck home. 

Spock lowered his gaze. “That other one used you to find us. I could feel her, in my head.”

“Yes. They kept me strapped down in their control room. She stayed in my head the entire time they were following your ship. She was able to somehow instantly communicate her awareness of your whereabouts to the pilot, and he was able to follow you all the way through the Maze.”

Kirk found he had to stand, to move. He paced restlessly in front of the force-field, staring at the tantalizingly empty corridor revealed through the seemingly-open door. “What did you do to me? I haven't been able to get you out of my head.” He whirled to find that Spock had gained his feet and was standing stiffly at the further side of the cell. “I think about you all the time. What did you do to me?” Kirk tried to put as much force as he could into his voice, but was dismayed to hear his tone was as much of a plea as a demand.

“It was not my intention to 'do' anything to you. It was an accident. I would have said such a thing was impossible, and yet it happened. I deeply regret this interference into your life.”

“Can you undo whatever it was you did?” Hope and fear battled in Kirk. He had never wanted anything as much as his body now yearned toward this man, but his mind recoiled from this knowledge. This was obscene. This was unnatural. This yearning had been forced upon him. He wanted it gone, obliterated into nothingness.

“I do not know.” Spock's hands clenched into fists, then disappeared behind his back. His voice was tinged with despair. “I certainly cannot attempt it here. It would require privacy, and time.”

“But it is possible?” Kirk persisted.

“I do not know,” Spock repeated. “You must understand, my people's culture, our life is formed around the Bond between mates. We create it; we do not deliberately dissolve it.”

“If you could... would you?”

Something died in the Vulcan's gaze. “If you so desire it, I would make the attempt.” His voice was a whisper. “But we are prisoners. We will not be given privacy. Or time. And shortly she will realize I am conscious, and she will wish to enter my mind, as well.”

“Didn't she enter it before—through me?”

“No. She found me through you. But she did not enter my thoughts.”

“She was disappointed when she saw that you were unconscious.”

“And so she took Daniel instead.”

“Yes. She took him instead.”

Spock was suddenly at the force wall, barely millimeters from the energy field, ignoring the warning hiss.

“If you touch it, you'll hurt yourself.” Kirk hated the instinctive concern he felt for this alien. Anger, disgust—he needed to hold on to those emotions. Spock was evil, a sex-obsessed alien sorcerer. Yet Spock's face revealed his fear for the fate of his human companion. Kirk forced himself to look at that concern, to see Spock in a different light. It was important, he reminded himself, to learn everything possible about this man. Anything he learned would be ammunition in escaping Spock's thrall.

Spock's muscles quivered; he leaned forward a fraction of an inch more. The forcefield screeched a warning. 

A great sigh escaped him; he took one step back.

“They'll bring him back soon enough.” Kirk found he'd moved to stand at Spock's side and immediately stepped away from him. He forced himself to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Shouldn't you be able to know what's going on with him?”

Spock copied Kirk's position, seating himself at the opposite end of the cell. “I am not like the Terran Psis. I cannot read anyone's mind at a distance.” 

“But you can read mine, anywhere.” Kirk's words were an accusation.

“No. I cannot.” Spock's dark gaze revealed pain and regret. “I would have to touch your face to do that.”

“Then why can't I stop thinking about you?”

“The same reason I cannot stop thinking about you. Our minds are linked. That means we are attracted to each other. Drawn to each other. As mates. But I do not know your thoughts. I would have to touch you to know your thoughts.”

Kirk kept himself from smiling. He had begun to guess this, since this alien hadn't responded to some clear images in his mind. Fortunately, neither had Selene when she'd come for Daniel, but the Psi no longer had any interest in him. As soon as she had found Spock, Kirk's usefulness to her was finished.

“Daniel said that all your people are Psi.”

“That is true.”

“You must have no conception of privacy.” 

Spock flinched at Kirk's disgust. “Privacy is valued highly among my people. We do not approach mindtouch lightly. These links are intended only for ones mate, or for the purpose of healing. To use these mindtouches as a Terran Psi would do—” He looked away from Kirk's gaze. “It is unconscionable. It is unthinkable. I would feel everything the other person felt, and to damage them—to cause them pain—to take information from them against their will—I would feel as they did. Violated. Raped.”

Kirk felt his skin crawling at this recitation. He fought against the memory of Selene as he had first seen her. The hardness in her icy eyes. The unclean feeling as her thoughts touched his, brutally slicing through to what she needed; tossing aside what she didn't. The sadistic touch of her thoughts as she reveled in his pain. “You're not like her, then.”

“I regret you have experienced such a thing. I do understand your fear. How can I not? To be violated by another's mind...” Spock's eyes plainly showed his horror. 

“I still don't understand how this happened—why you did this to me.”

“I did not intend this. I should have died, when the rest of my people died. It was wrong, for me to live on, and to do this to you against your will.”

“Please explain.”

“You know of my sexual needs. All the males of my race experience this. It is who we are. But psi is also who we are. In earlier days, it was thought best to wait until a boy reached sexual maturity, and then he would seek out the mind—and thus the body—of the one most compatible to him. But this led to chaos, violence, war. There was much competition among males for desired mates; there were women left unmated. There were men who died without mates. Many ages ago, the custom arose to match minds together before sexual maturity.”

Fascinated despite himself at this glimpse of a truly alien species, Kirk observed, “Child marriages aren't unknown on Terra.”

“This custom spared my people much violence. In this way, when the male experienced his first pon farr—his first time of mating—a mate would already be available. A mate whose mind was already locked to his.”

“You mentioned your wife had died.”

“Yes. She died—along with all of my people, and Daniel's wife. My family's ship—the Kon Tahr—was destroyed by the Terran Federation.”

“How did you survive?”

“Daniel and I were onplanet, along with Daniel's children, and some of our relatives.” 

Kirk, astonished, lost a phrase or two of what Spock was saying while trying to understand what he had just heard. 

He snapped his attention back to Spock, who was continuing, “We spend our entire lives in ships, but it is considered important for all of us to have the experience of living on a natural planet. We thus learn what it is like to live without walls—to know what it is like to be exposed to natural atmosphere and other elements. This way, we can understand where it is we came from. T'Pring—my wife—and Leora—Daniel's wife—were to join us at a later date. They were finishing a project on the Kon Tahr; they were within days of completion and did not want to leave the ship before they had finished their work. 

“You said... 'some of our relatives'. What did you mean by that?”

Spock was silent, and Kirk persisted, “You said 'our' relatives. Who is Daniel to you?”

Spock's silence lengthened, and then, when Kirk began to believe he wouldn't answer, he said in a low tone, “He is my cousin.”

“Your cousin.”

“I am half human. My mother was a human. Daniel's father was her brother.” The look in Spock's eyes told Kirk the reaction he anticipated from Kirk. Revulsion. 

“That... is not unknown on Tarsus. There are children there who have been born of humans and aliens.”

“And are they accepted?”

“No. “ Images of the corpses of starved halfling babies, who had been left out to die in the street, came unwelcome into his mind. “But that doesn't mean they don't exist. And if they...” he almost said survive, “And some of them find places for themselves, occupations.” As slave labor. But he left that unsaid, as well. “Only in Loris Town, of course. Kodos didn't permit aliens to go to any other part of Tarsus.”

“Yes. I know. Tarsus is as dedicated to Pure Human thought as other Terran Federation planets. Except, of course, for Loris Town. I understand alien trade brings Kodos much profit.” 

Spock's tone was dry, cynical; Kirk was aware that he was responding in kind. “When his philosophy conflicts with his self-interest—well, philosophy is abstract. Money is real.”

There was a rumble, a subtle shift in sound from the ship's engines. Kirk paused, and he noticed Spock had, as well.

“Course correction?”

Spock nodded. “Do you know where we are heading?”

“Selene told me they'd leave me on Tarsus. Now that she has you, she doesn't have any need for me anymore.”

“And what happens then?”

“You'll be taken to Terra, I'm sure.”

“I meant, what happens to you?”

“I'm told Kodos has quite an elaborate execution planned for me.” Kirk kept his tone hard, unconcerned. 

Spock squeezed his eyes shut in pain. “The weapons in the room where I found you... What were you doing, to attract such notice?”

“You really can't read my mind, can you?” Kirk said softly.

“No. I cannot.”

“We had plans.” Kirk began to pace again. “Tarsus is very far out in space—if Kodos were deposed, executed, then perhaps the people on Tarsus could start again, could develop a new, better way to live.”

Spock's gaze was following him in fascinated interest. “You see the way the world is, but do not accept it. You dream of a better future, and take action to assure it.”

Kirk laughed. “Dreams are for fools.”

“We do similar work.” Spock took a half-step closer to him, then paused. “That is why we were in that sector of space. We had rescued a shipload of dissidents from Terra; we were taking them to new homes.”

“Where were they?”

“In our ship. I do not know if they survived the landing however.”

Kirk contemplated that information even as he changed the subject. “It's too bad you never came to work for us.” Kirk made his tone flippant. “I'm sure you know that human/alien sex is one of the prime attractions of the House of Flowers. Anything forbidden brings in the most money. If you had worked for us, you could have made a fortune.”

“We are not sexually capable, outside our Time.”

“That wouldn't matter to some customers.” A bitter twist shaped Kirk's mouth. “So. Your wife died. Your people died. And you had no one.”

“I had no one.”

“Why didn't you select another? Haven't you found another whose mind is compatible with yours?”

“You are well aware of the disgust with which humans view telepathic contact. I would not choose one related to me by blood, so I could not choose one of my Family. Nor would I seek another, outside the Family. Even if I did find a woman whose mind matched mine—even if she did not reject me in disgust—I did not want to father children. They could have no future here.”

“And what about another man? You clearly have no objection to mating with one of your own sex.”

“That is true. I had not known that about myself, while my wife was alive. But why would a human male welcome an attachment with me any more than a human female?”

“So you started coming to the House of Flowers.”

“Yes. Daniel and I discussed this, how to make this work. How I could fulfill my physical needs; how I could survive without forming another bond. I can only form a bond by touching another's face. If my hands were restrained, I could not form a telepathic contact. He said no one would question our solution. He said many humans desire to be restrained while having sex and that no one would question a similar desire on my part.” 

“You never touched my face. If what you're saying is true, you shouldn't have been able to do this to me.”

“I would not have believed it was possible. But we are t'hy'la. I do not know quite how to translate that word into your language. Perhaps the concept of 'soulmates' would be the closest in meaning.”

“The hell we are!” Soulmates! Rage seared through Kirk; he had to force himself to listen to what the alien had to say. 

Spock didn't change expression. “Whatever you believe or don't believe, when you kissed me our energies merged and the link was formed between us. I have heard of this possibility—that two beings are so closely matched, telepathically, that it is impossible not to form a bond between them.”

“So what do we do to break it?”

“I do not know if I can break this link.” Spock took in a deep breath. “Without another Vulcan to assist me—one wise in the ways of our people—I do not know if I can do this. I was very young when my people were killed. There is much I do not know. And I was already in a Bond. There was much I did not need to know.”

“Will you try?” Kirk tried to keep his voice calm. There had to be a way out of this.

“I have already told you—to attempt this would require privacy and time. We are not likely to be granted either, here. You surely know what the Terran government will want with me.” He studied Kirk's face closely. “And we are within hours of planetfall on Tarsus.”

And of my proposed execution. “There are always possibilities,” Kirk murmured. He saw doubt on the alien's face, and, reassured by this further evidence that Spock could not actually read his thoughts, leaned back against the wall. His plan had no certainty of succeeding. He was counting on sheer luck to compensate for his lack of familiarity with crucial components. But Spock clearly didn't know any of his thoughts, and that's the way he intended to keep it. “Answer this. If you could break the Bond, would you?”

“I would try.” The dark eyes focused intently on his. “It is a crime among my people, what I have done to you. I should have attempted to break the Bond immediately.”

“You did try to, though. Didn't you?” Another question occurred to Kirk. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. “And what will happen to you when the link is broken?”

Spock did not reply.

The harsh sound of bootheels tromping down the corridor caught their attention. An ashen Daniel appeared at the door; a burly guard, phaser in hand, loomed directly behind him. The forcefield flickered as it deactivated. A large hand shoved between Daniel's shoulders; he sprawled onto the floor, and stayed still.

The guard stepped away, revealing the MOT agent. Incandescent anger and rage lit Kirk's mind, but Selene did not spare him a glance. Her icy gaze was focused with laser precision on Spock. Spock was motionless, rapt, as intent on Selene as she was on him.

She nodded. The guards stepped forward but Spock walked past them out into the corridor, following Selene's retreating form. 

The guards followed. Kirk watched until they vanished from view. Something was very different now. There was suddenly a blank space in his mind—the sense that a door had closed.

Spock, he realized. He could no longer feel Spock in his mind. 

It was a burden he should feel relieved to have discarded. Why hadn't Spock done this before? And why was he suddenly filled with a sense of loss?

Daniel Grayson was shaking all over, and Kirk felt a twinge of sympathy. Every time Selene had gone into his head, he had spent long moments after she had left him alone trying not to throw up. Sometimes, he succeeded. 

Grayson rolled over and curled up into a fetal ball. His eyes were tightly shut. He'd recover, soon enough. Kirk, knowing there was nothing he could do for him, kept his distance. Something in the strong, blunt bone structure of Grayson's face reminded him of a friend he'd once had. It had always been a weakness of his, to have friends. 

He didn't like to think about Gary, of the foolish, optimistic plans they'd made, at the age of thirteen. Plans to see the stars, to explore, to find out what lay beyond the Fringe. Stupid.

He hadn't recognized Gary's face when he'd found his body lying broken on the floor of his bedchamber. Dried black blood had sprayed around him, sheeting across the tiled floor and staining the sumptuous bedcover which had been dragged halfway off the bed. He'd been beaten and stabbed by one of Kodos' men. He'd been fifteen. 

Kirk had never told anyone else of his dreams about space. Not until he had gone in to service that strange alien at the House of Flowers. 

Grayson finally stopped shaking, and found enough strength to drag himself to a sitting position. He fixed Kirk with a hard glare.

Kirk didn't shift from where he was leaning against the wall. He forced himself to stay relaxed. Now that Grayson was awake, his resemblance to Gary had receded. Kirk gave Daniel his best smile.

Suspicion flared in Daniel's eyes and his posture stiffened. “A Flower would be in a good position to be a spy.”

“Think what you like.” Kirk shrugged. “It won't change anything. We're both still here.” Grayson's suspicions were oddly welcome—a distraction from that unsettling sense of emptiness in his mind. 

Grayson glared out the door at the featureless hallway. It wasn't difficult to read the worry and fear on his face, and despite himself, Kirk felt the same. What was happening to Spock? He didn't want this worry. It was unwelcome; yet another reminder of the power Spock held over him. 

Daniel moved closer. Kirk tensed, but tried not to let it show.

“What's happening to him?” Daniel demanded.

“I don't know.”

“You should know. You followed us through the Maze.”

“That was Selene.” Kirk felt a wave of weariness hit him, but kept it from showing on his face. He'd had very little rest in the past days, and there was more he needed to do before he could sleep. He was suddenly tired of Grayson's suspicions, but he reminded himself that there was much he needed to learn from the other man. “Why do you think I can read Spock's mind? I'm not a psi.”

“But you are linked to him. You should be able to—maybe not read his mind—but feel what's happening to him.” 

Kirk shook his head. “He did something, just now. It's like a blank wall. I can't feel him at all.”

“Could you read his mind before now?”

“I never knew his thoughts. But I couldn't stop thinking of him.”

“He wasn't reading your thoughts either. Before.” Grayson's voice had gone quiet; he was staring at the floor, and the blunt face reflected its own fatigue.

“Daniel.”

Grayson's eyes snapped to his, clearly angry at the use of his given name.

“Spock explained to me about the Bond. About how it was accidental.”

“Of course it was accidental.” Rage clipped and shaded Grayson's words. “He didn't want to have a mindlink with anyone—it's too dangerous. And even if he wanted a Bond—I'm sure he would have picked anyone other than a Flower.”

Kirk traded an easy grin for the insult. “He told me he'd break the Bond.”

Daniel stared at him. “He doesn't know how. They mate for life.”

“He told me he'd do it.”

“Then that means he plans to die.”

The words hung in the air between them. Kirk stirred uneasily. “I'm the one who is scheduled to die.”

Daniel stared at him. “Selene isn't going to let you die. She needs you.”

“Oh, Selene's finished with me. She's taking me back to Kodos. I'm sure he'll find some entertaining and lengthy way to put me to death.”

Daniel laughed, and Kirk stared at him in surprise. He'd tried to make light of it, but his coming execution was no joking matter, and, despite Grayson’s obvious antipathy to him, this was a more callous reaction than he would have expected. 

“That'll just ruin all of her plans for Spock.” Daniel shook his head.

“Could you explain that?”

Daniel settled back against the wall and gave Kirk a mirthless grin. “Bondmates are linked mentally—for life. If one of them dies unexpectedly, the other one dies as well—or goes catatonic. Or insane. Spock nearly died when his wife died. Maybe the fact that he's half-human saved his life. Maybe he's just stronger than most. The point is, when you're executed—they lose Spock, too.” 

“Unless Selene learns this from Spock.”

Daniel hesitated. “Yes.” 

Kirk was suddenly too tired to think of anything else to say. Daniel fell into a morose silence, as well.

They sat like that for several long moments before Daniel suddenly snapped alert. He got to his feet and went to the force wall, peering out into the corridor intently. 

Kirk didn't need to get up to see outside, but there was only blank emptiness in the corridor. “Did you hear something?” He was suddenly uneasy himself, a ripple of gooseflesh shuddering across his skin.

Daniel shook his head, and then turned his anger on Kirk. “How can you just sit there? We have to do something!”

Kirk regarded Daniel from his position on the floor, and shrugged in passive resignation. “There's nothing we can do.”

“You've just given up them. Just going to bend over and let them do you?”

“It looks like it, doesn't it?”

Daniel's blue eyes filled with disgust. Kirk didn't allow himself to be baited by either Daniel's words or his attitude. He kept quiet while the other man paced.

Long moments dragged by and yet nothing changed. No guards approached. But then he heard it—a whining shift in the sound of the engines; a shudder that rippled through the walls and floor; a tonal change as the sound rose in pitch, then settled into a lower vibration.

“Hear that sound?” Kirk hadn't moved from his relaxed position on the floor.

Daniel stopped his pacing and glared at him. “Yeah, so what?”

“You know about ships. Does that mean we've dropped into sublight?”

“Yes, that's exactly what it means.” Daniel bit off each word. “That means we're on the approach to Tarsus.”

“How much time do we have before planetfall?”

“Two, three hours, depending on the ship. With an Interceptor, I'd guess two.”

“All right then.” Kirk got to his feet, and with a deft movement removed something from a sleeve. He ignored Daniel's curious gaze as he adjusted the device for frequency.

“What have you got there?” Daniel moved closer to get a look at what Kirk was doing.

“A phase generator.” Kirk ran the device along the siding of the brig door frame, where he knew the force field projection mechanism was located. “After my last session with Selene, while the guards were taking me back to the cell, I saw some of the crew making repairs in one of the corridors.” The transparent energy field flickered and there was a faint crackling noise. He'd caught the pattern now. “I pretended to trip and fall, and while they were dragging me back to my feet, I palmed a phase generator. I knew they'd found you and Spock, so Selene didn't have any more need of me. Chances were good she'd never look into my mind again.” One quick motion up and down the doorframe, and the forcefield vanished.

“Come on.” He strode out without checking to see if Daniel was behind him.

Daniel grabbed Kirk's arm. “We have to get Spock.”

“I know.” He didn't slow his pace. “He's this way.” And he knew on a cell-deep level exactly where he would find Spock, even though he still felt that peculiar mental emptiness where Spock's presence had been living for these past weeks.

“Bondmates always know where their mates are.” Daniel said it as a flat statement. Kirk saw the comprehension in the other man's eyes. “Can she read you through him?”

“I don't know. But it's obvious where he is. She interrogated me in the control room. He has to be there.” Despite his words, he felt something tugging him toward Spock, and tried to tell himself it was a mere coincidence; that he wasn't feeling Spock's presence, but following his own knowledge of where Spock must be.

Daniel glanced around the cramped hallway. “We'll be caught if we go this way. Come on.”

With quick, deft motions, Daniel opened an access tube hatchway and climbed inside. Kirk followed up a steep staircase into a crawlspace heavy with the smell of metals and oils. Daniel squeezed himself into a cramped corner and motioned for Kirk to move past him. “This system leads all over the ship. Just follow whichever ventilation shaft leads in the right direction. It should be safe, unless they have set security traps.”

That wasn't all that reassuring, but Kirk didn't care. Time was passing rapidly; they were bare hours from Tarsus. Not much time to rescue Spock, liberate a lifeship and make their escape. Chances were, they'd get shot down the instant they cut ties to the Interceptor anyway.

He didn't let himself think—most particularly about why he was doing this, why he was following this compulsion to find the alien who had enslaved his mind. He'd deal with that later. But he knew—as certainly as he did anything in his life—he couldn't leave Spock to captivity or death.

He found his way through a maze of intersecting corridors, hearing and feeling the rush of the air system as it forced ventilation throughout the ship; hearing myriad pings and electronic sounds and engine sounds as they proceeded, wondering what they all meant, how close they were to Tarsus, how much time was left.

It felt like forever, but was probably only a few minutes when he knew, absolutely, that Spock was directly ahead. It was like a bright light in the darkness, a clearly marked path through a wilderness. 

Only now he thought to wonder what they were going to do. Selene conducted her interrogations in the control room. He remembered the bite of the restraints holding him to a chair, while she plundered through his mind. The memory of those icy, unclean tendrils of thought invading his mind brought such remembered nausea he had to swallow hard to contain it.

Spock had been undergoing this for hours.

There would be at least two other people present, besides Selene. Neither he nor Daniel had any weapons. The phase generator he'd stolen was great for turning force fields on or off, or adjusting the energy flow of many of the ship's systems. It was useless for offense or defense. 

Well, he'd figure it out when he got there. And that time was now. Up ahead was the crosshatching of a ventilation grate.

Fingers suddenly laced through the grating from the other side and pulled. The grate vanished. He froze, adrenaline surging energy through his body, demanding action or retreat.   
Spock's face appeared at the now-empty opening.

“Hurry,” Spock said and stepped back.

Somehow not surprised by Spock's presence, or the implication that he was in control of the situation, Kirk crawled quickly to the edge and dropped into the control room. Daniel followed a second later.

A quick glance gave Kirk an instant overview of the room. The pilot and navigator were slumped unconscious in their respective chairs, their wrists and ankles tied securely with strips of fabric torn from their uniforms. Kirk stepped toward the controls but paused at the sight of a black-booted leg protruding past the command chair.

He took another step and Selene's body came into view.

Her head was turned slightly to one side. Her face was the grey of old ash. A thick trickle of blood had run from her nostrils down the side of her face, congealing in a sodden mass in a tangle of her blonde hair.

Spock had taken a seat at the main control board, and was running a series of images on the image panel which sequenced faster than Kirk could register. “These ships have internal security systems in place in case of intruders. One of their security systems can flood the entire ship with anesthetic gas.” He punched several controls, and finally one image froze on the screen. “There.” He turned to face Kirk and Daniel, but his eyes were on Kirk alone. “I have just cut off the ventilation system to this room. The air supply here will last several minutes.” He pressed a button and checked the controls. “I just flooded the rest of the ship with the gas. The crew will be unconscious in seconds. They will stay unconscious for approximately 1.5 standard hours. I will wait five minutes; clear the gas, and reconnect this room to the ventilation system.”

Kirk fought against the impulse to touch Spock. Instead, he looked at Selene's body. “What happened?”

A darkness crossed Spock's face. “She thought she could go into my mind uninvited. She has never encountered anyone who could keep her out.” He stood and looked down at the dead psi. “She fought against my shields. She had such a sense of astonishment and disbelief. The pilot and navigator became concerned, but she ordered them to be quiet. They complied. She pushed harder, she used every bit of her strength to overcome me, to enter my mind. But I know how to keep others out. Something broke inside her, and she collapsed. It was difficult when she died; there was backwash. I was able to maintain my shields.” He glanced at the crew, still unconscious in their chairs. “They did not understand the restraints they tied me with were inadequate. I was able to break them, and render these two unconscious, before they realized what had occurred.”

Daniel was punching in instructions on the nav panel. “Where are we?”

“I dropped the ship back into sublight after overcoming the pilots. We are still 4.5 days outside the Tarsus system at the current speed.”

“We were close, then.”

“Yes, another 1.45 hours in warp and we would have been at the edge of the Tarsus System.” Spock brought up another image on the monitor. “They salvaged the lifetubes from the Leda; they are maintaining them in their cargo bay. Not all of them are still functional; some were doubtless damaged in our landing. There are two life ships on board this vessel. There is a crew of 20; the lifeships are designed for that complement. However, it should be possible to load all of the lifetubes onto the lifeships, and have sufficient room for the three of us. We have nearly one standard hour to accomplish this.”

Daniel studied the readout. “How fast can those lifeships go?” 

“They are not designed for speed; merely for the preservation of life. They can achieve warp two at the maximum.”

Daniel grimaced. “It'll take forever to get home. But unless there are any other Terran ships here...” He suddenly stopped, and Kirk looked at him, seeing fear in his eyes. “But there will be, won't they? And they'll be looking for you.”

But Spock was shaking his head. “Doubtful. In attempting to access my mind, she opened her own, and I knew her thoughts. It was part of her fear and disgust at my own intrusion that caused her to struggle so ferociously; it was that struggle which caused her death. She did not tell anyone of what she learned from you, Jim, or from you, Daniel. She saw great advantage for herself in having control over one such as myself. She thought to make political profit out of this, and thus told no one, keeping all information to herself. No one knows about me. As far as the crew of this ship is concerned, you and I are two smugglers who, for reasons of her own, Selene wanted captured. And those reasons died with her. In any event, where would they look? All they know is they tracked us through the Maze. Where, in all of the Fringe—or farther—would they start looking?”

“But what about him?” Daniel took a half step toward Kirk, his anger palpable. Kirk forced himself not to react. Daniel was a problem, but, given luck, this was a problem he'd never have to deal with.

“Kodos will want Jim captured, but it's unlikely Terra will feel it worth the cost to send another Interceptor. I will disable ship’s sensors and their FTL drive. It will take them quite some time to effect repairs, and when they do, there will be no way they can trace our heading once we leave here. They'll never find us.”

Daniel took in a deep breath. “It's getting stuffy in here, Spock.”

Spock touched something on the control panel, and a fresh gust of air flowed through the ventilation system. “Let's get to work. They keep a supply of antigravs in the cargo bay; it should be possible to transport all the lifetubes to the lifeships—” 

“Not so fast,” Kirk said. “I have a better idea.”

Both men were staring at him. He grinned. “Let's put the crew on the lifeships, and take this ship for our own.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and Daniel gave him the first genuine grin he'd seen from the other man. “Damn good idea,” Daniel said. “Let's do it.”

Spock brought up a schematic on one of the monitors. “Here is the ship's layout.” Kirk moved next to Daniel to get a good look, not missing the fact that the other man drew away from him. Spock continued, “I will go investigate the lifeships. Bring the crew there, as quickly as you can.”

Daniel fixed Kirk with a look that promised only a temporary truce, and then he was heading toward the door. Kirk fell in next to Spock's side, and was startled to see how their steps formed a rhythm together. 

They parted at the first intersection corridor, and, circling around two of the Nighthawk's unconscious crew, he followed Daniel as the other man headed to the cargo bay. They retrieved two antigravs from their storage compartment, loaded the nearest unconscious bodies on them and headed toward the aft portion of the ship, where the lifeships were docked in a separate hangar compartment.

Spock emerged from one of the cylindrical craft and headed toward the other one. “I have disabled the communications panel in the first lifeship.” He disappeared inside the second ship. 

Daniel took his own antigrav stretcher and went inside the first lifeship. Kirk followed, and with quick, economical movements they each settled an unconscious crewmember into a seat and hooked up the safety harness.

From there they formed a quick routine: find unconscious crewmembers, load them on the stretchers, settle them in the lifeships, repeat. Spock soon joined them, and well before their hour was up, all of the Nighthawk's crew had been secured inside the two lifeships.

Their task completed, they returned to the control panel. Kirk stood back and watched the other two men as they quickly studied the Nighthawk's controls, talking to each other in a rapid technical shorthand about the ship's capabilities of flight, defense and communication.

“All right, then,” Daniel said, his hand hovering over the instrument panel. Spock nodded. “Launching lifeships.”

Two telltales lit on the instrument panel. Spock checked the readings, and then turned to Kirk. “The lifeships are launched. The crew will be regaining consciousness soon, but they will find they cannot use their communications equipment. Once they determine their position, it will still take them several days to reach Tarsus, and I am certain they will encounter some bureaucracy because of their lack of communications capability. The authorities on Tarsus will not be able to follow us; too much time will have elapsed. Even if they have a ship capable of reaching our current position, the sensor readings will simply be conflicting ghosts by then.”

“And where are we going?”

Spock glanced at Daniel. “We can't return to the fathership. The Nighthawk is too large to dock.”

“Onplanet, then.”

“Arkus?”

“Agreed.”

Daniel turned his attention back to the controls, to what Kirk recognized from his scant experience as the navigation position. Spock seated himself in front of the pilot's controls, then turned to Kirk. “Better strap in. We're ready to go.”

Kirk only spared a nanosecond of distaste as he strapped himself into the same seat where he had been interrogated. He wondered briefly what had happened to Selene's body, and decided he didn't care.

Spock and Daniel were already strapped in by the time Kirk clicked the last attachment closed, and then the two of them, working in sync, went through a series of short questions, answers, and manipulations of the ships controls.

He felt the movement of the ship, a smooth glide, and then suddenly they were into warp speed. They were out of the first Jump within moments, and, with a swift coordination of words and controls, Spock and Daniel took them into another Jump almost immediately.

Daniel let out a whoop as the ship came back into normal space, and Kirk noticed that a faint smile touched Spock's mouth. Spock turned to him, and Kirk smiled at the elation in the other man's eyes.

“Where are we going?”

“To one of my family's Homes,” Spock said. “To a world in the Fringe.”

Daniel was watching them, not bothering to conceal a scowl.

“I'm sorry for what happened to your ship,” Kirk said. 

“You have no responsibility for that,” Spock said. “You could not protect yourself from the mind of a psi.”

Daniel's scowl had deepened, but Kirk didn't offer a further apology. Adrenaline was still rushing through his veins. They'd done it. He'd escaped—and now, instead of being taken to his execution, he had a future again.

Spock and Daniel turned back to ship's controls. Kirk contemplated Spock's face, tilted down and away from him as Spock focused on the instrument panel. All that Kirk could see from his position was the sharp angle of Spock's cheekbone and the mass of black hair obscuring his alien ears. 

He was deeply aware of the fact that his attention focused on Spock at every opportunity. Perhaps he should be afraid. But he found he could not revive the earlier complex mix of fear and revulsion he'd felt when first Spock had been brought to his cell. Whatever Spock was, the situation was more complicated and perhaps less threatening than it seemed. 

Kirk turned his attention to the viewscreen. The varying brilliance of thousands—millions—of unfamiliar stars lay scattered across the blackness of space. He'd never seen the stars from space before. As a child, he'd spent the trip from Terra to Tarsus in the crowded passenger dormitory. All he'd seen then was metal walls and the faces of far too many people pressed far too closely together. He'd been only a child then, but he didn't think any of the adults had had this vantage point, had had the opportunity to see the stars.

Now, with only a viewscreen and the skin of the ship between him and the emptiness of space, the stars shone with a steady light, so very different from the twinkle and shimmer of stars seen through atmosphere.

There was nothing in that array of stars that he recognized, and suddenly the realization hit him: with every minute that passed this ship was taking him further from everything he'd ever known.

He'd lost everything. Again. But he'd survived the last time that happened. He would survive this.

He looked away from the viewscreen and focused instead on Spock's face. Spock was looking at Daniel, and his face was in profile to Kirk. Kirk was convinced Spock wasn't aware of his gaze, but at that moment Spock shifted, turning his upper body just enough so that he could meet Kirk's eyes.

Their gaze held. Spock was silent. So was he. Around them, the ship's engines thrummed; beyond them, the star patterns changed as the Nighthawk continued on its designated course. Spock's face had gone expressionless, and Kirk felt it, again: the feeling that a door had closed between them.

Daniel said something and Spock turned to the control panel. Kirk forced himself to sit back in his chair, every muscle in his body aching with new tension.

Why wasn't he overjoyed at that feeling of separation? Why didn't he welcome that sense of being once more alone in his own mind? It was what he wanted, after all.

He inhaled deeply. Yes. This was what he wanted. Whatever this alien had done to him, it could now be undone. Spock had said he'd need privacy and time to break this sorcery between them. They'd have that, on this Home world Spock had mentioned. And though Kirk could think of no rational reason to trust Spock, he was certain on a gut level that this alien would keep his word.

Soon, he would be free. Whatever happened, wherever they were heading, he'd find a way to remake his life.

That was, of course, what he wanted most.


	4. Planetfall

The black arc of the Nighthawk's bow soared hundreds of feet over Kirk's head. Its matte-dark bulk blotted out the sun; its massive struts were planted securely on the landing pad. Kirk, standing directly beneath its belly, felt dwarfed by its sheer size, and yet he was equally excited by its promise of power, flight, and freedom.

His eyes were still dazzled from the bright light flooding down around the ship. Here on Arkus, the late morning sky was filled with a bright haze, its center incandescent with the glow of this planet's sun. Beneath the Nighthawk, the world was divided into shadow and brightness. 

He blinked, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, and looked up toward where two figures were standing on an antigrav platform, a good 20 feet above his head.

“That's it, then.”

The oddly-accented words carried clearly to Kirk. Kirk turned his attention to the man directly to Spock's left. His name, Kirk recalled, was Montgomery Scott.

He looked up as Scott gave a final check to the figures displayed on the instrument he had pressed against the Nighthawk's skin. Scott detached the tricorder and handed it to Spock, who scrutinized the readings and nodded.

From the height of his antigrav platform, Spock glanced down at Kirk. Their eyes held for a moment, then Spock gestured to Scott, and the two began their descent.

The antigrav platform settled gently on the landing strip and the two men stepped off. The gangway had been lowered, and dozens of people were crawling in and out of the ship's entryway. At Scott's announcement, everyone had approached and they were now pressed close to Spock and Scott, clamoring out their questions and observations.

“You see, the flux regenerator will work.” Scott jabbed a finger at the tricorder. “We can coat it onto the ship's hull.”

“We'll make this ship ours.” Daniel Grayson had emerged from the crowd and looked up from where he'd been studying the tricorder. 

“Aye. The Feds will never recognize it as one of their own.”

“Not from a distance.” Spock scrutinized the tricorder readings. “There will be no disguising this ship in any close encounter.” 

Spock's dry tone elicited an expression of disgust from Scott, who snorted. “If you're going to be close enough to kiss, there's only two possible outcomes.”

“Their destruction—or ours.”

“Aye.” Scott's word was a sober sigh. “That's the truth of it.”

A bustle from behind them distracted everyone's attention, and they turned. A vehicle pulled up alongside the dirt road. People spilled out and began unloading items from the storage compartment. In short order a lunch buffet was set up; people made their selections and found seats on various packing cases and other debris. Looking around him, Kirk estimated that half the contents of the Nighthawk was strewn around them on the landing pad. It looked like chaos and disorder, but he could tell this was deceptive. Spock's relatives might move in a cloud of activity and a fury of noise, but work was being done, and a lot had already been accomplished.

They had landed several hours ago during planet's night and when he had emerged from the Nighthawk he had been overwhelmed by the glare of the harsh landing lights from both the ship and the primitive landing facility. A crowd of people had swarmed around them, and Spock had introduced him to a bewildering array of people who were all somehow related to each other in a complicated web of kinship. 

Now, watching the people who had formed an impromptu line for the lunch buffet, Kirk found he already recognized several people. Spock and Mr. Scott, still discussing the readings displayed on the tricorder, stepped absently into place in the line. Spock looked up and nodded to Kirk to join them

Kirk took a position immediately behind them and continued to study the crowd. He had always had a good memory for faces and names, and he tested his memory as he glanced through the crowd. A blonde woman—her name was Tam, he recalled—was seated on a packing crate and balancing a tray on her lap while chatting with several people perched on various makeshift chairs around her. 

Last night, she had been among the crowd who had greeted them. Many of the people here now had greeted the ship last night, and he recalled how those dozens of faces, the harsh landing lights, the excited voices, the press and smell of the crowd had combined with his exhaustion to give him a feeling of the surreal. He had slept only in brief snatches since his initial capture. After the hours of abuse at the hands of Kodos' guards, then Selene's telepathic rape of his mind, and the subsequent escape from Terran space, a hazy, dreamlike feeling had seized him and still persisted despite the cold night air that had greeted him as he had stepped down from the Nighthawk. He'd jolted back to full awareness during the subsequent bumpy ride in a large, open vehicle. He'd been pressed close to Spock and several other people, surrounded by the curious glances from all these strangers. 

It had taken several minutes riding down a dark dirt road before the lights of what had proven to be a small settlement had become visible. He'd watched with curiosity as buildings came into view, not dissimilar to the buildings of the community his family had lived in when they'd first arrived on Tarsus. A farming community. What little he could see in the dim light filled him with a stab of pain and loss; he could easily picture his parents, his brother and Aurelan, living and working in and near buildings such as these.

The vehicle had come to an abrupt halt, and he had immediately been taken to a large meeting room inside what was clearly a community structure. There, Spock and Daniel had related their story, and officially introduced him to the assembled crowd as James Kirk, a refugee from Tarsus.

That had seemed to be all that was required for anyone to know about his identity—at least publicly. Kirk had been certain that Spock and Daniel would be answering many more questions privately, and indeed, after Spock had taken him to their guesthouse, a simple square prefab structure, and after he'd shown Kirk the building's amenities, Spock had disappeared again. 

In his absence, Kirk had gladly taken off the Terran uniform he'd used as a replacement for his prisoner's grey clothing. He'd showered and put on the plain, ill-fitting trousers and tunic that had been left for him. After that, he ignored the trundle beds set against three of the four walls, opting instead to settle on a couch in front of a metal-caged fireplace. He thought he was too keyed up to relax, too filled with questions and concerns for his future, but the cessation of the fear and near-constant activity since his arrest on Tarsus days ago caught up with him and he dozed off. 

A surprisingly short period of time later, he came suddenly, fully awake. An instant later he heard the crunch of a footstep on a twig, but he knew that sound hadn't been what had startled him. Rather, in his half-awake state, he'd been aware of the approach of someone he knew, and it had seemed natural and right that he could feel Spock's position, know when he was close by, be aware that he was getting closer. 

There were two sets of footsteps outside, but only one truly concerned him. He was already standing, waiting for them, when the door opened and Spock and Daniel entered. Daniel gave him a hard look, then quickly stripped off his clothing and settled into the bunk on the wall to the left of the fireplace, turning his back to the room. Daniel was already snoring by the time Spock had organized the contents of a couple of packs of belongings into a cabinet. 

Spock completed his task and turned to face Kirk, not moving from his position to the right of the fireplace. His face was pale in the firelit dimness of the room. 

Kirk also kept his distance. “Is there anything I need to know?”

“Daniel and I described the events on the Nighthawk to certain members of our family. Decisions will be made, some perhaps as soon as tomorrow night. We will need to examine the Nighthawk in further detail tomorrow before a council meeting can be held.”

Kirk nodded. Decisions about him, he was certain. But there was nothing he could do to influence matters at this moment, and the exhaustion on Spock's face, the slump of the other man's shoulders, kept Kirk from voicing the questions that crowded his tongue. Why was he surprised at Spock's weariness, his vulnerability? They had both been through so much. When had any of them been able to get any rest? They had napped on the trip back, but Kirk's sleep had been disturbed by bad dreams, by wakeful concerns for his future, by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. He guessed the same had been true for both Spock and Daniel. 

All flesh tires, Kirk thought. Spock took an aborted step toward him, lifting a hand, clearly intending to touch Kirk, then hesitated. Kirk watched the path that hand took, back behind Spock's back, to grasp its unseen counterpart.

All flesh tires, just as all flesh hungers and desires.

“We should sleep now. We'll have much work to do in the morning.” Spock disappeared inside the bathroom unit, and Kirk claimed one of the trundle beds instead of the couch. He lay down and closed his eyes. He thought he wouldn't be able to rest, but an unnamed tension had deserted him with Spock's presence, and when he heard low rustling noises indicating Spock had emerged from the bathroom and taken the final bed as his own, Kirk slipped off quickly into sleep.

When they awoke in the morning Spock had handed him a new set of clothing: black denim trousers and a faded blue workshirt that fit him far better than what he'd been given the previous night. They'd stopped by the settlement's main structure for the morning meal, and then had ridden back to the Nighthawk in what Kirk saw, in the daylight, was an open land vehicle capable of seating twenty.

Once back at the Nighthawk, a horde of Spock's friends and relatives, armed with tricorders, padds, and some more arcane instruments, had swarmed over every inch of the ship's interior and exterior. He’d spent the morning helping out by carrying crates of equipment out of and into the ship. Now, at midday, all those people were busy eating and chatting with each other. He caught many excited snatches of conversation about the capabilities of the Nighthawk, speculations about its speed, discussions about fuel requirements. 

He and Spock served themselves from an array of stews, breads, vegetables and salads spread out over several antigrav containers. He noticed Spock made his selections from the non-meat dishes. “You don't eat meat?” he asked, following Spock out into the direct sunlight to the nearest empty packing crate, which they used as a makeshift table.

“That was the way of my father's people,” Spock replied. 

“A religious belief?”

“Not in the way that Terrans define it, but perhaps that is the closest analogy. Vulcans revere life, revere peace, and do not believe nutrition should be gained from the death of another being.”

Kirk swallowed a mouthful of good beef stew, but reached for a round hard biscuit next. “Does it bother you, to be around people who eat meat?”

“I am accustomed to it. Only a few of my mother's people are vegetarians, primarily the ones who lived on the Kon Tahr; the humans who lived there all adapted the Vulcan diet.”

“That was your father's ship. I remember, you told me the Terran Federation had destroyed it.” 

Despite the rays of the direct sun Spock's eyes darkened, and Kirk suddenly felt a well of grief that called out to his own pain, a sorrow that matched the depths of his own. He fought against Spock's emotions; he visualized himself with his hands pressed against a door, holding it tightly closed.

The wave of emotion passed. Spock's face had gone blank, expressionless. Kirk continued the thought, hearing the unsteadiness in his own voice but not wanting to acknowledge that brief, strange moment. “Did many humans live with your people?”

“Relatively few.” Spock's voice was even, calm. “My mother, of course, and Daniel, who came to live with us when his parents were killed in an accident. There were some other humans who made a life with us.”

“And were any of them also married to any of your people?”

A shadow fell across them; they both glanced up at Montgomery Scott, who tilted his head back to the main door of the Nighthawk. “A bonnie ship indeed you brought us!” He was practically vibrating with excitement and enthusiasm.

Kirk felt a sense of relief from Spock at the interruption, and guessed that he was uneasy discussing personal matters. Still filled with curiosity, he forced himself to set his questions aside.

“Shall we have another look at the control room? Daniel told me you were both taken there by the psi.” Kirk was surprised at the note of disgust in Scott's word as he spoke the word psi—did he not know about Spock? or did he feel that Spock was something else entirely?

He shot a glance at Spock, who wore an expression of complete imperturbability. Scott didn't seem to notice anything amiss; he was bouncing with enthusiasm for his new toy, and if he had made a verbal faux pas, Kirk was the only one who seemed to notice.

Spock led the way up the gangway. Once they reached the control chamber, Mr. Scott began plying him with questions.

The conversation quickly turned into technical jargon that Kirk found impossible to follow. “I'm not a pilot—the only time I was ever on a space ship was as a passenger,” Kirk interrupted. “Spock and Daniel could answer those questions.” He glanced in Spock's direction. “You examined this ship thoroughly on the way here.”

“Were you not there when you followed us through the Maze?” Spock asked. “You saw the ship in operation at that time.”

“I was—rather occupied.” A crawl of revulsion shivered across his skin as he thought of Selene's mental assault, helpless and yet—somehow—connected to her, even as she was connected to the pilot. “There was something...”

“Yes?” Spock looked at him searchingly.

“While I was linked with Selene, she was linked with the pilot, and there were—concepts—that came back to me through her. It was a type of feedback.” It had nearly burned out his brain; his pulse had thrummed dangerously quickly and there had been a roaring in his ears, a vertigo so intense that if he hadn't been strapped down he would have collapsed. But there had also been a sense of hyperfocus, and the feeling of being distanced and separated from his body, floating above the chamber, watching it all, absorbing every detail. “I think if you asked me the right questions I might be able to answer.” 

“They would have been using the navcomp. And, their asteroid deflector—what a piece of machinery that is! Much better than anything we have right now. What a boon this ship is!” Scott mused, and then turned a bright expectant gaze to Kirk. Scott began running through a series of technical questions.

Kirk described everything he'd observed about the ship's operation during his interrogation sessions with Selene. His lack of familiarity with starship terminology was an impediment, but he was able to point to the relevant controls to illustrate the actions of the pilot and the navigator as they'd gone on that wild flight through the Maze. Scott furiously scribbled notations on his padd. 

“Hey, Spock.” Daniel appeared at the door. “We're looking at the sensor array now, and Carl has a question for you. He thinks the protocol is similar to what was used on the Kon Tahr; he wants your advice.”

Spock nodded. “I don't know how long this will take.” His glance took in both Scott and Kirk. “If you are not here on my return, I will meet you outside at dusk if I do not encounter you before then.” 

Spock followed Daniel out into the corridor. Scott, barely missing a beat, continued questioning Kirk about the navigator's actions. Kirk found it odd to realize that, though that flight, careening through billions of chunks of naked rock, should have been terrifying, and that Selene's presence in his mind should have been repulsive, once the connection between him, Selene and the pilot had been made, the psi had somehow masked his emotions away, cutting with surgical precision to tease out the line of his link to Spock. In that emotionless clarity he had been able to mentally record many details of the pilot's actions. In a way, he had been the pilot. He had less memory of what the navigator had been doing, and yet, as Scott continued to question him, he realized he'd been aware of that man's actions, as well.

“Scotty!” 

Three more people had appeared at the door. The speaker, a big man with nearly waist-length blond hair, strode in first. “You've got to come to engineering with us.”

“What is it, William?” Scott didn't seem irritated at the interruption; rather, Kirk saw a look of keen anticipation appear on his face.

“You won't believe what we found regarding the matter-antimatter conversion mix.” A tall blonde woman followed him inside the control room, her eyes glowing with excitement. Kirk recognized her; she'd been introduced to him as Tam. There was a third person lagging behind, another woman, but Kirk couldn't get a clear view of her.

“We found a reserve batch of dilithium crystals—worth more than the cost of the Leda, all by themselves,” the man, named William, added, then gave Kirk a guilty glance.

“Yes. Well, Spock and Daniel should be told; it might ease the pain of losing the Leda,” Scott observed and turned to Kirk. “D'ya mind waiting for me here? I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Scott followed Tam and William out the door, but the second woman, rather than following them, stepped aside to let them pass, then walked into the control room. She cast Kirk an enigmatic glance. “They'll be longer than 'just a few minutes'. They'll be there half the day.” She seated herself with casual ease in the pilot's chair and gestured to Kirk to sit down in the nav chair.

“Sarah.” Kirk remembered being introduced to her the previous night. She'd been one of the first people to meet them after landfall. Daniel's sister, he recalled, and was startled to suddenly realize that meant she was also Spock's cousin. Thin and sharp-boned, she was dressed in plain clothing—a dark workshirt and black trousers—very similar to his own borrowed clothing. She had to be at least twenty years older than her brother. Her close-cropped hair still showed the same bright copper-red sheen as Daniel's hair, but the strands were dimmed and threaded with grey, and the skin on her face showed signs of wear. An old jagged scar cut across one cheekbone and disappeared into the uneven hairline just above one ear.

“Yes, Jim. Or do you prefer James?”

“It doesn't matter.” He wondered how much of the complex emotions he felt reflected in his voice.

Silence built between them. He sat perfectly still, relaxed before her frank scrutiny. 

“Daniel told me about you.” Her voice was hoarse; it sounded like her natural tone, rather than an illness. Her tone was noncommittal, calm.

Kirk smiled, a smile he chose when he wanted to conceal all other thoughts. “I'll bet he did.” 

She regarded him with mild curiosity. He waited to see if her face would betray any other reaction. He wasn't sure what to expect. Would it be condemnation? He knew about frontier morality; he'd made his fortune defying it. Both in Loris Town, and earlier, behind the walls of Kodos' palace, he had been physically cut off from the rest of Tarsus, but he had his memories of his family and his community, and he knew how his own people would have viewed what he had become.

He had made it his business at an early age to find out as much as he could about everything that might possibly concern him—which, as far as he was concerned, didn't rule out much. And he knew that, for the rest of Tarsus, people who lived in the places most strictly controlled by the dictator were also the most concerned with keeping sexuality restricted to only certain limited expressions. This was why fortunes were made in places like Loris Town.

He had had nightmares, after his parents had died. He'd been living in luxury in Kodos' palace while starving crowds were slaughtered outside those impregnable walls. He had always kept his mind carefully blank when Kodos was with him. But later, in the darkest part of the night he'd wake suddenly from nightmares. In those dreams, he'd seen the faces of his parents, their faces contorted with bitter disgust and shame for what he was doing. Condemnation, for how he had lived. Condemnation, because he'd lived and they'd died.

He never had these nightmares anymore.

Sarah was still searching his features, for what he did not know, her face as carefully unrevealing as his. “We all live our lives as circumstances dictate.”

“Play the hand you're dealt.” He shrugged and smiled. He knew it was a sunny, boyish smile, a smile women—and a lot of men—responded to.

She grinned, and now he saw warmth in her eyes. “You seem to be someone who would place bets wisely.”

He grinned. “Care for a game of poker?”

She laughed at that, eyes sparkling. “I might just take you up on that.”

A sound from the hallway alerted them to company. Spock and Daniel re-entered the room. Kirk didn't miss the look on Daniel's face as he found Kirk and his sister apparently sharing a good joke and he realized the other man's anger was flaming into hot rage; his instant dislike of Kirk, so palpable while they'd been confined in the Nighthawk's brig, was quickly becoming true hatred.

Kirk sat back in the nav chair to create some space between Sarah and himself, and schooled his expression to one of polite interest.

Sarah flicked a look at Daniel, then back to Kirk. She stood up from the pilot's chair and addressed Daniel. “See you at dinner tonight. Spock, the food processor unit has been acting up. Scotty did a patch the other day, but it's mixing up the soups and the puddings again. I know I won't be able to drag Scotty away from this ship to take a look at it.” Spock raised a brow, and she grinned. “Yes, I know, you're just as bad as he is. But could you have a look at it, maybe tomorrow? There's no time tonight.”

“Yes,” Daniel said. His words were cold, and he was looking directly at Kirk. “We have the meeting tonight. That's going to take up the whole evening.”

Spock was looking at Kirk. “Where did Scott go?”

Sarah glanced between Spock and Kirk. “Tam and William dragged him to engineering. Not that it took any persuasion at all,” Sarah said. Her gaze rested on Spock; Kirk could tell by her expression that she had picked up something on the connection between them. “We found a reserve batch of dilithium crystals there. There were several concealed containment cabinets.”

Spock looked interested. “Fascinating. So the Terrans feel the need to conceal things, even on their own ships, presumably from their own crews. I'd already examined their main store, of course. Those crystals were of the purest quality.”

“Well, there's at least twice as many more. You and Daniel...” She glanced toward Kirk, “And James are rich men.” Sarah raised her own eyebrow. Spock didn't return her grin, but his face softened.

Daniel snapped, “That hasn't been decided yet!”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop 20 degrees. Kirk, startled both by Sarah's words and Daniel's reaction, looked from one face to the other. Daniel's face had contorted with anger; he'd stepped forward toward both Spock and Sarah. Spock responded by putting his hands behind his back. Sarah stepped forward to meet him. “All right.” There was hot anger in her voice, but she managed a slight twitch of her lips. “You're right. That hasn't been decided yet.”

“I would like to examine these new crystals,” Spock observed, his voice deep, even, calm.

Daniel glared at him. “Yes. I would too.”

It was Sarah who took the lead, however; with Spock and Daniel following close behind, and Kirk bringing up the rear.

He wasn't sure what all these undercurrents meant. But he intended to make it his business to find out.

There was a crowd of people in Engineering, which was a large room mostly given over to the matter-antimatter assembly, with a smaller, connected area for the impulse drive. Mr. Scott, Tam and William were arguing about something on the matter-antimatter control panel. A clump of people near them were adding observations and comments. When they approached, conversation stopped. Scotty said, “Ye'll be wanting to see the crystals.”

“Yes,” Spock said, and he and Daniel stepped forward as Scott used a tool to open an otherwise-unseen wall cabinet. A tray slid open, filled with an array of large faceted crystals which seemed to shift and glow as if from an internal light.

Kirk watched and listened as the three men discussed the purity and value of their find. He'd never be a starship engineer, nor would be ever be a starship mechanic, but his boyhood dream of being a pilot, a dream long starved by the realities of his life on Tarsus, was finding new life, and he could feel it slowly inching to the surface of his mind.

Then Spock was called to inspect one thing, Sarah another, and as he didn't much care for Daniel's company he went on a stroll through the ship. Everywhere he went he watched and listened, filing away every casual comment, every speculation about the abilities of the ship and the dangers of the Terran Federation finding it here. People, in clusters or by themselves, passed by in the hallways, or later, when he'd descended the gangway and gone outside again, clustered around the antigrav carts, eating and drinking and talking. Everyone gave him curious glances. No one seemed hostile, nor did they seem particularly welcoming. He got the feeling of being on display, of being appraised, if not actively judged.

He found he couldn't resent this. It was exactly the attitude he'd have taken, had he been in their position.

Kirk found himself outside the ship near sundown, chatting with a young man of about fifteen named Jonathan about what farming techniques he could recall from his boyhood on Tarsus. It was clearly time to head back to the settlement. The large ground vehicle had already come and gone twice, fully loaded with people. The sun was low in the sky and darkness had threaded over the far horizon when Spock and Scott exited the ship, still talking in highly technical terms.

“I'll go over these figures.” Spock switched the tricorder off and hung it by its strap from his shoulder.

“Time to call it a night anyway.” Scott glanced around the dwindling crowd. “Tam, what do we have in the way of flux supplies?”

Tam, her long blonde hair braided against the light breeze, named 1000 hectoliters. “That's what they had in stock last time we were here. Let's go to stores and double check. If it's not enough, we'll have to manufacture some more.”

“Agreed.” Spock looked around the crowd. “We'll meet back here tomorrow morning. I'll have the figures reviewed by then, and we can plan the necessary work.

Breaking free of the crowd, he stepped toward Kirk. Kirk fell in at his side, and together they walked away from the ship. The landing pad ended abruptly several dozen yards away from where the Nighthawk lay berthed. They waited at the edge of the dirt road as the ground vehicle approached.

There was more than enough room inside the vehicle for the remaining stragglers and they were shortly on their way back toward the settlement. Spock was silent. Kirk kept stealing glances at him, watching the way the wind shifted errant long strands of hair which had escaped the confines of the black fabric Spock had used to tie back his hair. 

People piled out of the vehicle once they were back at the settlement, heading into what Kirk had mentally dubbed the 'cafeteria'. Spock nodded toward him. “I'll get food for both of us. We should return to the guesthouse. We have things to discuss.”

As Spock headed into the main building, Kirk mentally tried to pick up on what Spock was feeling—and was dismayed to realize that he was doing this. He didn't want to know—he didn't want to care—about Spock's emotions. He had only two concerns: breaking the mental link that bound them. And leaving this planet behind.

To distract himself, he looked around at the settlement. A number of smaller buildings were clustered around the main structure, and there were dirt roads leading off into the surrounding trees.

He looked up at the sky. The light was different here, on Arkus, than it was on Tarsus. The sky had stayed hazy all day, and now the sunset spread pink and orange and gold tones across the horizon, edging into darkness overhead. The haze in the air contrasted with the hard clarity of the light on Tarsus. He had seen Kodos' estate many times from the air, each tower and turret in the dictator's vast, sprawling complex picked out in merciless detail. As a young man of 16 and 17 he'd flown aircars over that estate, and over the jagged mountains that protected it. Kodos had already tired of him by that point and given him to one of his lieutenants; Kodos had already replaced him with other, younger boys. 

He'd fallen in love with flying in Decker's aircar; and being airborne had fueled his impossible dreams of space and flight. Decker had been good to Kirk in many ways; he had indulged Kirk's fantasies of flight, and never required much in return.

He quirked a smile at the memory. Space and flight? Or, simply, escape?

Spock emerged, carrying a package, and Kirk, already knowing the way, joined him, twigs and dried leaves snapping underfoot they walked down the dirt path toward the guesthouse. The air had grown cooler as the sky had darkened, and Kirk found gooseflesh rising on his arms. 

“Everyone here seems to be related to you,” Kirk commented.

“Not everyone. Mr. Scott is not. There are many onplanet who are not technically part of the Family—though most of the people on our ships are Family, whether born or married-in, or Made Kin.”

“How did Mr. Scott join you?” Kirk watched the motion of the leaves in the trees. A soft cool breeze sifted through the branches, detaching colorful leaves, sending them to erratic resting places on the ground, scattering around their feet as they continued to walk down the easy path.

“He was an engineer on a Terran merchant ship making the colony run. He jumped ship on Terra Colony Five and signed on board an Andorian freighter. He wound up in the Fringe, and later signed on one of our ships whose engineer had been killed in an accident. We don't often directly hire people, and his was a limited contract, but he found he liked living among humans again, and the Family agreed he could join us.”

Kirk absorbed the implications. There was so much about Spock's family structure he didn't understand, and the more he learned, the more complicated it all seemed.

“Tonight... at this meeting. Your Family will decide my fate?”

Spock swallowed. “That, among other things.”

“What should I expect?”

“Most refugees are accepted, though not necessarily taken in as part of the Family. It is far more common to find them places on one of the Fringe worlds—a new life, some resources—which they're expected to repay—connections to others, a community.”

A different world. Resources. Contacts. “That's all I need,” Kirk said. Spock's gaze settled into his soul, and he felt a sudden wave of sorrow. Whose? Spock's, of course. Kirk had no reason to feel sorrow. It looked like he'd be given everything he needed to get out of here, and then who knew what the future would hold? He'd find the possibilities.

He wished there was time to learn more about operating ships; not only did it make his soul soar, but it was a practical way to make money. But he'd find some way to repay his hosts. He knew a very reliable way of making a living. Every world, certainly, had its brothels. He was still good to look at; he had a few more years in him for that profession. If necessary, he'd make the money on his knees. 

But perhaps that might not be necessary.

He took in a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs and cleared his head. “What did that all mean—what Sarah said about the dilithium crystals?”

“The ship—and all its contents—is salvage, and belongs to the people who salvaged it.”

Kirk grinned. “'Salvage'? I would have called what we did 'piracy'.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “And the Terrans would have called capturing Daniel and myself 'apprehending criminals'. I would describe our subsequent actions 'escape from an oppressor'.”

Kirk laughed. “Yes, that's true. But you say the ship belongs to the people who salvaged it? Sarah included me in that group.”

“It may well be decided that you are entitled to a share. That is my opinion, and my testimony will reflect that opinion.”

Kirk pondered that for a moment. “And if I'm granted this share—of the crystals or of the ship—does it matter what I do with it?”

Spock stopped and fixed him with his gaze. “What did you have in mind?”

“I can't stay here. You know that.”

Spock squeezed his eyes shut, and when he reopened them Kirk steeled himself against the pain in those dark eyes. “You will be free, James Kirk. I promise that. I cannot guess what the council will decide, but you have my personal guarantee that you will be taken to wherever you want to go, and given sufficient funds or other resources to start a new life.” Spock's voice had deepened, roughened, filled with barely-concealed emotion, though his face was once again expressionless.

Spock's breath plumed in the cold air. Kirk shivered at the continued drop in temperature. “Thank you.” He swallowed against the pain in his throat.

“It's warm inside.” Spock nodded toward the guesthouse.

Once inside, Spock gave him the package, which Kirk found contained a cheese sandwich and some fruit and a packaged coffee. Spock tended to the fire, then took a long black coat out of the closet and put it on. “I will return after the meeting.” He indicated the contents of one cabinet. “There are entertainment tapes and a viewer here.”

He turned and left without saying another word, and though the room was warm from the fire, Kirk still felt the edge of a chill on his skin. 

*****

“Decision made, then.” Samuel Grayson looked at Sarah, and Tam, positioned to either side of him behind the long table. They nodded. Carl and Sharin, representing the onplanet community, also nodded. “It's unanimous. James Kirk is entitled to 1/3 of the salvage of the ship Nighthawk and all its contents.” 

“The hell with that!” Daniel exploded. “He was just a prisoner on that ship—just because he happened to be there—”

“He did free both of you from the brig,” Spock stated. Daniel half-rose from his seat, his face contorted in an expression of anger: an emotion, Spock was startled to note, that was directed at him. 

Daniel's hands had formed fists. He tore his gaze from Spock even as he turned to Samuel. “He doesn't deserve a share. The split should be 50-50 between Spock and myself.”

“Daniel.” Samuel's voice was cold. “The decision is made. James Kirk took action in freeing you both from the ship's brig, and Spock has testified it was Kirk’s idea to take the Nighthawk.”

“He's just a damned—”

“Daniel.” Sarah's voice was equally cold. “His past is meaningless. He is like any other we have welcomed into the Family.”

Daniel stood at that, bristling with outrage. He directed another angry look at Spock. “Welcome him into the Family. Well, he doesn't want to stay here. You are all too damned trusting. What if Kirk betrays us? You're going to give him money to use against us. What if Terra sends another psi?”

“If that happens we'll deal with it, as we've dealt with other matters in the past.” Sarah's voice was deceptively mild, but Spock heard the thread of anger in her voice, saw it in the tension in her shoulders, and way hard lines appeared around her eyes.

“You're fools and idiots.” Daniel took a step toward where the five were seated.

“Daniel, you're out of line. The vote has been cast, the decision made.” Samuel's voice had grown colder yet. 

“The Leda was mine. The Nighthawk should be mine, as recompense.” He cast another hard look at Spock, who felt shocked at Daniel's assertion.

Sarah stood. “Your share of the proceeds from the dilithium crystals would buy you the Leda two times over. You haven't lost anything, Daniel. Even deducting your share of the cost of refurbishing the ship and the colony's berthing fees, you've gained. You're far better off now than you were before.”

“Oh, you don't know what I've lost. What all of you have lost.” He'd swung back to face Spock, who was riveted by the gaze of his best friend, whose face, contorted with rage, seemed suddenly strange to him.

“Daniel, I do not understand your objection.” 

“Damn you!” Daniel was suddenly in his face, and hit by the unexpected wave of intense anger that assaulted his emotional shields, Spock stepped back, stumbling against the leg of his chair. He seized the back of the chair, righting himself.

“Daniel!” Sarah's voice was loud, commanding. 

Daniel thrust his face right into Spock's. “He's worthless. He's a thief and a whore and a liar.”

“You are correct on only one count.” Spock forced himself not to retreat any further from Daniel's anger. He stood very still, firming his shields, trying desperately for some control, trying to understand why the only person who had been consistent in his life was now treating him like an enemy.

Samuel and Sarah were there then, forcing their way between Daniel and Spock.

“You're completely out of line,” Samuel said to Daniel. “I suggest you go think things over. This decision shouldn't come as any surprise to you. It's nearly identical to decisions we've made in the past.”

Daniel bristled, glaring at Samuel. He aimed a nasty stare at Sarah, as well, then suddenly stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

From where he was standing, the seat of his chair still pressed against the back of his knees, Spock watched all the Council members except Sarah leave. She hung back until the door was securely closed, and then turned to face him. There was a complex array of emotion on her face; he identified anger and sorrow.

He was weary. Dealing with emotion, whether his or that of another, was difficult, and the decision that had just been made, while good for James Kirk, had caused unexpected trouble with Daniel. The press of the unfulfilled bond filled his mind, demanding precedence over all other concerns, and yet he must maintain control, must learn what needed to be done for the current situation.

“Sit down, Spock.” Sarah's voice was kind. 

He did as she directed. “Sarah, I do not understand why Daniel is so angry.”

Sarah settled in the chair next to him in the chair that Daniel had abandoned. She looked at him in sorrow. “He is jealous.”

He was shocked to the soul. “I do not understand.”

“There are many more types of jealousy in the world than sexual jealousy.” She sighed. “You are the crutch he leans on, and though James Kirk certainly didn't plan this, he's taken away something of great importance to Daniel.”

“It was Daniel's idea, for me to go to the House of Flowers.”

“And that certainly doesn't help matters now.” She stared off at the closed door. “I'll do what I can for him, Spock. Don't worry about him. Concentrate on yourself.”

“Daniel's concerns about his share of the Nighthawk are irrelevant, in any case. He can have my share of the ship, to do with as he pleases.”

Her gaze snapped back to his. “That won't be enough for him.”

He felt strong emotion at her words, emotion he identified as desperation. “What does Daniel need?” He strengthened the plea in his voice. “Please tell me, so I can give it to him.”

“No one can give Daniel what he needs, Spock. It's no failing on your part.” 

He shook his head, long used to the human gesture. “If I were human, I would understand this.”

A small sound escaped her. It sounded like laughter, and yet there was no mirth in her. She laced her hands together in her lap, then, with a clearly conscious effort, straightened her posture. “Your Jim... He is nothing like your T'Pring,” she observed, her voice quiet, not offering either condemnation or praise.

“No. He is not.”

“Is this like you, Spock? I have not asked any details of your visits to Tarsus. I had hoped that you would find one suited to you—here, or in the Fringe. Someone you could—be with, as you were with T'Pring. Someone who... felt about you,” she coughed slightly, her voice hoarsening with that phrase, “as you felt about her. Or him.”

Raising his right hand, he let his fingers rest briefly on the meld position on his own face, before letting his hand drop back into his lap, where it formed a tight fist. “He is my match.”

She studied his face and he met her gaze, trying not to keep to the habit of parhavt'hal, remembering how she had stroked his hair when he was a child, just as his mother had. Remembering her and Amanda, laughing at jokes or discussing their sorrows in quiet tones when they thought they were alone, with no one to witness their displayed emotions. 

Sarah had held him in her arms when he'd awakened from his coma and found his world utterly destroyed; held him and spoke soft words to him and soothed him and brought him back from the terrible darkness which beckoned him to follow T'Pring into death. And he had accepted this comfort; moreover he had shed tears and spoke words of rage before he had remembered parhavt'hal, before hot shame had filled him over his display of emotion. She had known the ritual words, however, and used them; moreover, she had told him now that Amanda was gone she was his mother. But since she, like a few other humans who had their own reasons for discomfort with open displays of emotion, practiced her own parhavt'hal, the tears he had seen in her normally hard dry eyes had done as much to shock him back to reality as her words of comfort.

Since then, she had never offered to embrace him, to hug him, to offer that comfort as human parents did with their children, as human friends did with each other so very casually, and he had told himself he did not need that touch. That, though all his people had died, he still must keep to the Tradition of Parhavt'hal, despite the human genes within his biological matrix. 

Nor had he ever seen tears in her eyes again; tears he had only seen one other time, when her husband had died of radiation poisoning.

She sat before him, thinner than Amanda had ever been, and still with the same aspect to her face, the same posture, the same eyes. He had observed, as the years passed, the effects of age on her face and hair, and reflected that his mother, too, almost exactly of the same age as Sarah, would have known these same changes in her body. If she had lived. 

“So,” she said after a moment of silence. “Daniel told me, on the Zeus, that when you left James on Tarsus, that he was your enemy. That he wouldn't accept you. But now that he is here... will he Bond with you?”

He shook his head in the human way, feeling exhaustion dragging his body down. He found he couldn't bear her compassionate gaze and stared down at his hands, his fingers so tightly twisted together the flesh had become white. “He sees me as a psi.”

“You are not a psi.”

“A difference which makes no difference—” 

“If he has the time to get to know you better...”

“He is filled with disgust at the sight of me. He has great anger for what I did to him!” He heard his own anger in his voice, and knew he was revealing much emotion with every gesture, expression and inflection. It was so difficult to even attempt Control now, and yet he attempted for an even tone. 

“He doesn’t seem disgusted or angry to me,” Sarah said mildly.

He shook his head. “He is anticipating his freedom. I have tried to block out his thoughts and emotions as best I can; I will not intrude any more into his mind.”

“You will break the link between you then.” There was a new roughness in her voice. 

“Yes. It is his desire.” 

She was silent for a long moment, and he finally looked up. Her eyes were dry; he was grateful for that. He did not want to see the presence of tears in her eyes. Her lips were tightly pressed together. New lines had etched into her skin since last he had seen her, only a few short weeks ago. The hard light from the overhead fixture showed how the grey in her close-cropped hair now dominated the bright red coloring which had fascinated him as a child.

“Does he know the consequence to you?” she asked finally.

“He does not.” His entire body stiffened. “Do not tell him. He did not choose this. I will not have him against his will.”

Sarah studied his face carefully. “You don't expect to survive this.”

“How can I?” He had meant to keep the despair from his voice, and yet he heard it there: naked emotion, and not just in his voice, but displayed on his face as well.

Sarah's eyes revealed compassion and sorrow. How easy it was to read human emotion, after all these years among them. How shameful, still, to admit his own.

Her eyes closed tightly for a brief moment, and he saw her struggle with her breathing. He saw the pain in her face, the tightness of the skin around her eyes and mouth. Her hand trembled in its resting place on her knee; her fingers lifted, then as she reached out to him, she let the gesture abort itself midair. Her hand fell back into her lap. “Perhaps you will survive this.” 

“Perhaps.” It was illogical to utter false words, and yet he knew she drew comfort from it. He found it in himself to reach out, to touch her hand. “I thank you, for what you have done, and what you will do.” She turned her hand palm upward and closed her fingers around his, gently squeezing his hand.

“Spock...” she began, then fell silent again.

He waited a moment, but when she did not speak, he continued, “If I do not... survive, I direct you to give James Kirk as much of my resources as he needs to go wherever he wants to go.”

“His share of the Nighthawk should be more than enough.”

“Give him what he needs, and give all the rest to Daniel. I do not think James will want the Nighthawk; Daniel can have it for his own.” 

“You could give Daniel the world and it would never be enough.” Her teeth snapped shut on the bitterness in her voice. “All right. If necessary, I'll be sure your wishes are carried out.” She stood abruptly. “You look exhausted. You should get some rest.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I can't sleep.”

She studied his face. “Because of him?”

“It is not my Time, and yet...” And it was highly improper, to speak of such things to anyone other than a father or a brother. 

“And yet you want him.”

The blood rose in his face, burning his skin. “It is impossible.”

Kindly, she turned away, allowing him the illusion of privacy. She drew in a deep breath. “I'll see you at breakfast, then.” She strode out of the room.

He stared blankly at the closed door, feeling the trembling in his body. Too much emotion, too poorly controlled. Not even concealed. He was a disgrace, to his father's people, to himself.

Worse, lust burned in him, as it had burned ever since he'd been back in Kirk's presence. Unfamiliar lust, as this was not the Fever, not the Time. Experiencing desire out of season was incomprehensible to him, and yet he was confronted with the incontrovertible proof of it. It was fire along his skin; it was a constant aching pressure in his groin. He was as hard as he ever was in pon farr, and yet he experienced none of the feared madness; just this insistent, all-consuming need, agonizing in proximity to its source, unbearable in the removal of its stimulus.

Perhaps this was how humans experienced sexual need. He had been afraid, on the Leda, when this physical desire had first manifested itself, but he had now lost his fear of it, knowing it to be meaningless in the knowledge of his soon and inevitable death.

And the physical desire was the lesser of his needs. Far more difficult, to be in Kirk's presence, and not to reach out to Touch his mind...

He had used every discipline known to him from his father's people to quell this compulsion, to prepare his mind for what he must do next. He could go without sleep for some time, but he did need peace, quiet, privacy. If he was to accomplish this separation, he needed Control, as he had never needed it before.

He looked down, and consciously relaxed his hands, staring at the welling droplets of emerald blood on the palms of his hands from the fresh wounds he had inflicted with his nails, taking their place among the scabs of many other small wounds. He had inflicted this pain upon himself every time he felt the desire to touch Kirk's face, every time he had been consumed with the need to initiate the meld. 

It was agony to be in Kirk's presence. It was worse to be away from him. 

But it would all be over with soon.

The empty silence of the room finally penetrated his consciousness, and he forced himself to stand. He must go to Kirk now. There were things they must discuss. A moment later, he found himself by the closet, his long coat clutched tightly in his hands. He stared down at the dark fabric, unwilling to take the next step toward his own destruction.

He compelled himself to move, to breathe, to put the coat on and walk to the doorway, shutting the light down behind him as he left the room. 

The main meeting hall was dim and silent, a contrast to the chaos that reigned at every mealtime. The Family was always noisy, boisterous, in motion. The room seemed hollow without their presence. His footsteps echoed as he passed by the painted walls. One panel now displayed an abstraction of a sunrise. This painting was relatively new, and it had replaced another work that had been started by Leora. Eleven years ago, Leora had begun a starscape on this very panel. She had urged T'Pring to try painting a panel of her own, but when the other woman had demurred, she had convinced T'Pring to paint in some coloring in Leora's representation of the Elurian Nebula.

Leora had never finished the piece.

One night, five years ago, Daniel had partaken of too much alcohol and had scarred Leora's painting with a laser-knife

It had been agreed to remove it completely and replace it with something new.

He had never said this to anyone, but he agreed entirely with Daniel's action.

Daniel. Since the loss of the Kon Tahr—the loss of everything in their lives—there had been complex emotions swirling around his perceptions of Daniel. A complexity  
irreconcilable with the simplicity of their earlier years.

He forced aside the undecipherable knot of feeling he now had toward Daniel. These emotions were irrelevant. If he survived the breaking of the bond with Jim, then there would be time to learn what to do about Daniel. For now, there was nothing that could be done. 

He stepped out into the darkness, his footsteps crunching on the gravel roadway. Most of the surrounding buildings were in darkness but he needed no lighting to find his way to the path to the guesthouse. Soft nightsounds surrounded him, whispers of air through the trees and the rustling of small animals among the leaves and twigs carpeting the ground between the trees.

He had walked thus, with T'Pring, eleven years ago, both of them enjoying, as always, the experience of walking in a world without walls, with natural air to breathe, natural ground beneath their feet. Each such experience was different and quite interesting, but they both agreed that while being onplanet made an intriguing contrast to their life onship they would not want to live confined to the ground permanently.

It had been summer on this planet, then; the light had lingered late through the evening, and in the privacy of the pathway they had allowed their fingertips to touch. 

Now both moons had risen and their soft light was filtering down through the half-bare branches of the trees. Winter was approaching. He hugged his coat closer to him against the chill of the air, the chill in his soul. He did not wish to experience or even acknowledge the complex range of emotions surging in him. He thought longingly of the computer array in his quarters on the Zeus. There, it was easy to lose himself in the intricacies of programming and computer code. There, he was of service to his Family. Not a burden.

He let his mind drift into a fantasy. It was self-indulgent, of course, but he had long since discovered that he possessed the human attribute of imagination. In his mind, he was flying the Leda, or perhaps a ship like her. T'Pring had found great joy in the freedom of flight, had found great pleasure in the precise maneuvering of a small ship at great speed. Kirk would be one such, as well. Kirk's eyes had glowed during their flight to Arkus as he'd asked questions about the ship, how it operated, how it maneuvered. He had taken joy in answering those questions, in being able to provide something to the human that he obviously craved.

After their formal bonding, T'Pring had permitted herself small smiles when they'd been together, intimate gifts for him alone. Kirk, of course, would not be hesitant to display emotion. Now, in his fantasy, it was Kirk who sat in the Nav position—with Daniel's blessing, Daniel having found a perfect mate of his own. Kirk was smiling, and it was like every wonder in the universe captured in that smile, directed at him alone. And Kirk extended his fingers, and Spock touched them with his own paired fingers, feeling the sweet current of that touch race through his nerves, a touch which held both promise and fulfillment. And then they kissed in the human way, and lay together for sex, and then Kirk permitted him access to his mind, and there was joy, ecstasy, and finally peace.

An animal called in the distance, and a sudden gust of breeze rattled more leaves to the ground. He rounded the final turn on the pathway. Light shone through the cabin window, the inconstant flicker of the fireplace. 

T'Pring had kissed him in the human way, in the final hours of the only pon farr they had shared. Now, his human ancestry wished to betray him by shedding tears.

He refused to weep.

He paused before the cabin door. It was a stranger who waited within. Not a welcoming Bondmate.

In the cell, on the Nighthawk, and here, onplanet, Spock had tried to shield against Jim, to prevent any spillover of his own thoughts or emotions into the human's mind. He knew he had been successful, for the most part, and now he took a deep breath, firming his shields anew. He had no right to intrude upon this human; he had already done too much.

He felt the pressure of his fingernails in his palms, tearing new small wounds. He stepped through the door.

Kirk didn't move from where he stood in front of the fireplace. The flickering light struck highlights on the fair human hair. Spock sensed the energy around Kirk, palpable as a star's corona, and he ached, body and mind, to merge with that energy.

An illogical image occurred to him. When onplanet, Daniel and some others liked to go down to the river, particularly in the summertime, and on these occasions they would create a fire for warmth and for a focus for their companionship. He had observed how certain insects were drawn to the light and heat, how they would immolate themselves out of their own attraction to the flame. Now, observing Kirk, he considered those insects, as oblivious to their certain destruction as he was assured of his own.

And yet, enthralled by the energy that leapt between them, mesmerized by the strong clean lines of Kirk's body, and his hair, glorious in the light, he felt again the presence of hope. It was an emotion he was attempting to obliterate, and yet it came back, resurrected itself like water seeping from a diverted ground spring, prevented egress in one place, discovering new paths to the surface in another.

He could not condemn himself for the fantasy. These failings of his no longer mattered. 

Kirk turned from the fire, and Spock sought out the expression in the shadowed face, in the hazel eyes, which could be at once expressive and concealing.

Kirk nodded. “What was the decision?”

“We will need to pay the colony a sum of money for common expenses, and there will be an additional sum to refurbish the Nighthawk. Once the work is complete and the value calculated, that amount will be paid to the colony in the form of dilithium crystals. You have been granted 1/3 share of the Nighthawk and all of its contents, including any remaining dilithium crystals.”

Kirk's eyes widened; he shifted slightly where he stood.

“If you do not wish your share of the Nighthawk, Daniel and I will buy your portion with our share of the dilithium crystals.” Spock paused, weighing his next words, being careful to leech emotion from his voice. “You have also been offered membership in the Family, if you choose to accept it.” Kirk's eyes didn't betray any change of expression. Spock drew in a deep breath, and continued, “If you choose not to accept membership in the Family, you have been offered transportation to the destination of your choice.”

“I can't stay here.” Kirk's voice was oddly gentle; Spock detected no anger or malice in his eyes. 

He had expected those words, or ones like them. Nevertheless, they cut through him like a laser; he felt an odd weakness in his legs.

Kirk gestured toward the couch. “Please. Sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

Spock sat, as directed. Kirk pulled over a chair from the table/desk unit in the corner and sat, carefully distant from Spock. 

Kirk rolled his shoulders in conscious relaxation, then fixed his gaze on Spock. “Who are you?” The words were simple; the tone oddly intense, and the hazel eyes searched every aspect of his face, as if committing him to memory.

“I am Spock cha Sarek, of the planet Vulcan.”

“A world you've never seen,” Kirk mused.

“No.”

“How did you get here? How is it that you are half-human?”

“My father was the leader of an exploratory mission. There were many such ships sent out from Vulcan, on long range missions, to explore space, to study other life forms, to ascertain where other sentient species might reside. It was a 103 year mission, in your terms. At the end of that time, they planned to return to Vulcan, with all the information they had gathered during their travels. My people live a very long time. My father was a young man when they left. If all had gone as planned, he could have gone back home, not yet old.”

Spock noted that Kirk was watching him intently and had leaned forward toward him. He closed his eyes briefly at the feel of the energy from the other man's body beckoning to his mind; he fought against the additional stab of physical desire. Irrelevant. He could control. This was not Fever. This was not true Need.

No. It was more than true Need. This was the bond of t'hy'la, which he must deny.

He heard a ragged edge in his voice; he fought to make his tone dispassionate. “Approximately 35 Terran years ago, the Kon Tahr approached the area of space you call the Fringe. There, we encountered a human ship called the Poseidon, captained by a human named Aaron Grayson. This was a small ship, with a contingent of 20 crew, but like the Kon Tahr, the ship was crewed by a family unit. One of the humans was a young woman of 17 Terran years named Amanda Grayson.” His voice roughened. “Amanda was my mother. My father had lost his wife in an accident some time prior. There were many different families represented aboard the Kon Tahr; it was intended that a new wife would be selected for him at the proper time. But then he met Amanda. And they were... t'hy'la. Their minds were so attracted to each other that he could have no other.” 

Kirk instinctively drew back in his chair. “And didn't that—repel her? Disgust her?”

Spock swallowed heavily and kept his eyes open against his pain with sheer force of will. “It did not.”

“How do you know? Why would any human agree to this?”

Spock flinched at the demanding tone. “I cannot tell you her motivations at the time. She told me herself that they were in love. They married, in the human tradition. They bonded, in the Vulcan tradition. Both my mother's people, and my father's, found their union to be valid. Moreover,” he heard cold anger threading into his own voice, “my parents loved each other, in human terms. I know both Terrans and Vulcans, couples of both species, and the energy between my parents—the 'feeling' if you will—was no different than that of any other couple who are meant to be together.”

“`Meant to be together',” Kirk repeated. His eyes glittered strangely. “All right. You told me you lost your wife—that your ship was destroyed.”

“Yes.” Spock swallowed, feeling the echoes of that old pain still strong within him. “As I told you, Daniel and I were onplanet—we were here, on Arkus. My father took the Kon Tahr past the Fringe... into Terran Federation space. He wasn't looking to make contact with the Terran government; but there were worlds of interest, not yet in Terran Federation domain, which they wished to catalog and explore. They were caught by surprise by a Terran battlecruiser. And destroyed.” He regretted the hoarseness in his voice; could not interpret the light in Kirk's eyes. His hands had knotted themselves together to the point of pain. He welcomed the sensation; it cleared his mind of other, deeper anguish. He forced his hands into a new configuration, trying for some measure of Control.

“What was your wife like?” Kirk shifted slightly closer, firelight flickering on his hair.

Spock considered T'Pring's qualities. “She was quite intelligent, and skilled as a pilot. She showed good judgment in all of her choices.”

He attempted to read the expression on Kirk's face, but this human, like Sarah, was good at his own parhavt'hal.

“Did you enjoy being with her?”

Spock swallowed. “Yes. I did.”

“From what you said... you must have grown up with her.”

“Yes. There were several family units aboard the Kon Tahr; it was considered necessary to have representations of various clans on board, as it was anticipated that children would be born and mates would need to be provided for.”

“Together for all your life...” Kirk whispered. “Was she beautiful?”

Spock's eyebrow rose. “Yes. She was very beautiful.” Spock studied Jim's face, which was equally beautiful. 

“Did you love her?”

The question hung into an empty silence. Spock contemplated the question, the depths of pain he'd experienced, still experienced from the loss of his life's companion.

“She was—a part of me,” Spock said at last. As you are now. But those words remained unsaid.

“And yet you were able to go on.” Kirk saw Spock flinch, saw also the spasmodic motion of Spock's hands. 

“Yes.” Spock swallowed again, his eyes fluttered shut, then quickly reopened. “I was able to go on.”

A brief, quickly shuttered wave of pain and loss washed over Kirk and vanished, leaving a melancholy residue. Kirk was silent for a long moment, contemplating Spock's face, only too aware of the pain the other man was attempting to conceal. 

Before Spock had joined him this evening Kirk had examined his memories and strengthened his will. He'd asked to learn Spock's story even as he'd warned himself not to believe a word Spock said. But now he found that his doubts had dissolved away in the face of Spock’s pain, at the core-level honesty he sensed in Spock's every word and gesture. 

How do I know this is still not some alien sorcery? Kirk didn't want to feel sympathy or any sense of commonality with Spock. Life is a series of losses. It's an old story, he told himself. 

And yet, Spock's obvious pain gave him pause, and when he spoke, he realized that, despite everything, he believed him.

“When you followed me through the transport panel... I regretted not killing you,” he said in a low voice. “When we were arrested, all I could think of was you... I thought, of course, that you were a spy. That you had betrayed our cause. I wondered why I hadn't been able to bring myself to pull that trigger.”

Spock had steepled his hands together, and had been contemplating Kirk over his fingertips. At these words, he stilled. Only his breath betrayed his life.

“Then Kodos brought Selene in. Not you. When they arrested me, I was sure you had betrayed me. I asked him about his 'pet psi'. He laughed at me. He told me that if I was so anxious to meet a psi, he'd certainly oblige. But it took a couple of days, and then... Well, his pet psi was not you. I knew that, as soon as I saw Selene. Then she reached into my mind...” Kirk didn't permit himself to shudder at the memory. “It was clear you hadn't betrayed me. She seized on my image of you with such hunger... You were something completely new to her. And she wanted to know more—much more. But you already know this.”

The firelight cast flickering shadows on Spock’s angular face, highlighting the alien quality of his features. It could have made him look demonic; instead he looked open, concerned. “How did you decide to attempt a revolution against Kodos?” 

Kirk shifted at the change of subject. “How does a prostitute become a revolutionary? Is that what you are wondering?” 

“I do not question why anyone would oppose oppression. One's profession is irrelevant.”

Kirk gave him a lopsided grin. “There were other attempts against Kodos, before, of course. How familiar are you with the politics of Tarsus?”

“I have acquaintance with that world's recent history.”

“Kodos was always suspicious of those closest to him. And with reason. Many of them would have liked nothing better than to assassinate him and become dictator themselves.  
We wanted something more...” Kirk stared off into the distance, no longer seeing Spock's face, but rather a constellation of faces from his own past. 

“You know already that I was one of Kodos' favorites.” He heard the bitter twist in his voice as he pronounced that word; saw the way Spock stirred uneasily at that word—at the emotion behind that word. “When Kodos tired of his boys he gave them to others as favors. He gave me to one of his lieutenants, a man named Decker. Decker didn't need me for the same purpose as Kodos—he only liked women, and older ones, at that. But he did need an errand boy, and he saw me as a type of protégé. And I think, too, some of what Kodos did disgusted him. Of course he didn’t say anything; he wasn’t stupid. But he had ideas of his own. I overheard things, became privy to certain plans...”

The shifting pattern of the firelight competed with the low steady lighting from the room's recessed panels. In the light of that glow, which left the prefab walls half in shadow, Kirk saw again the walls of the ship that had, long ago, brought him from Terra to Tarsus. “I had heard of these ideas before... On the way out from Terra, my parents and the other colonists talked about many things. I remember them talking about their hopes and dreams for a new life, far from the restrictions on Terra. My father talked about Tarsus; he said he believed it would be possible to find a place 'where a man can truly breathe the air'. Everyone seemed to know what he meant.”

“Terra does have less control over its furthest-flung colonies,” Spock observed.

“All the better for men like Kodos to take charge.” Kirk laughed, a bitter sound  
“There we were, crammed into the ship's holds, barely room for us and our belongings, talking about freedom. And yet... Tarsus was my father's dream; our family’s future. My parents clung to those dreams. I was too young to understand most of what they were talking about. But I do remember that my parents and the others thought that, since Tarsus was such a long journey from Terra, things would be better there. And yes, those first few years were good. Everyone was given their own land to work, machinery, animals. Those early years, we all worked constantly, but the crops were seeded and grew, and the harvest was better than expected the first year, and then again the second. My father paid most of his profit in fees to Kodos, but that was a set sum. We all knew things would be even better in the future. It wasn't.”

“You lost your parents.”

The restlessness within Kirk brought him to his feet, and then to stand before the fire, his back to Spock. “My parents. My brother Sam. Aurelan—his wife. My nephew Peter.” Flames from the fireplace crackled and danced. Their warmth was alive on his face, the heat caressed him through his clothing. And yet his back remained cold.

“The blight came, the fourth year.” He heard his voice grow low and cold. He'd never spoken of this. Everyone he knew had the same tale, whether victim or bypassed by fate. “We tried to stay on the farm; we had stores from the previous year. Everyone did. But supplies ran low, and my father said that we had to go to the city. That there was food there.” It had been winter then, he recalled, and they'd all been hungry and tired, but he'd still been young enough to be excited by the day and the unexpected journey. “We walked a long way to the city. All of our animals were dead.” They'd killed the pigs and cows for food; they'd killed the horses initially for mercy, so they wouldn’t have to watch them die of starvation, and then eaten the horses as well.

“My sister-in-law was so tired.” All of them had taken turns carrying her baby Peter, who was only a few months old. Aurelan had been ill since Peter's birth. Kirk still remembered her, as vivid as if she stood before him now; her face pinched with fatigue, her feet as they stumbled over the rough ground. “My father and brother had to help her walk.” Aurelan had collapsed before they had progressed very far; Sam and his father had taken turns carrying her, with the city still many miles ahead.

“There were a lot of people on the road. Our neighbors.” Groups and clumps of people had formed together, knots of neighbors, people known from social events, from the community hall that was the hub of their rural existence.

“We made it to the city, somehow. Not all of us.” Aurelan had made it into the city alive. Some of the older people had fallen by the road; none of them had been related to him, and yet many of them had been familiar faces. He had seen old Jeremiah Yates, the grandfather of the family next door, collapsed by the roadside, abandoned by his family. He'd wanted to stop and help—he would see the old man was still breathing—but his father's fingers had dug painfully into his shoulder, pulling him away. 

“Once in the city, things seemed calm, orderly. The soldiers had us wait in a long line. We couldn't see the end of it, but they told us that we would be given food, water, blankets; that there would be a place for us to go.”

“There was no place for you to go.” Spock's deep voice startled him but he didn't turn away from the fire. He continued to stare at the shifting patterns the flames made; using their color and light as an antidote to the white of his nightmares.

“No. No place for us to go. We were in the second wave of settlers. Kodos had decided that the most recent arrivals were the most expendable. The earlier arrivals had established ties; their farms and businesses were more valuable to him. We were just starting out.” The street had been crammed with people taking exhausted, slow, painful steps through a quagmire of slush and mud. The snow had been cleaner where it pressed against the buildings, though it was still soiled and streaked with dirt. But above... he remembered how brilliantly the sun had illuminated the snow, so bright on the rooftops above their heads. His eyes had been dazzled; he'd blinked back tears when he looked away, and when he found his mother's gaze he pretended her tears were there because she, too, had looked up at the sunlit snow. 

“Everyone was quiet.” They had been moving through a haze of exhaustion. Sam was now staggering beneath Aurelan's weight. Peter had stopped shrieking miles back and now slept in Winona's arms. 

“A group of soldiers came. They walked along the line of people, repeating orders, reassurances.” Repeating lies. “They were looking at all the people. When they came to me, they pulled me from the line.”

His father had shouted at them, demanding to know what was happening. He'd twisted and turned in a soldier's harsh grip, and managed to break free. He'd taken a half-step back toward his father when he was grabbed again and thrown to the ground. 

His face smashed into snow-covered ground. The shock of the impact drove the breath from his lungs and he lay there gasping for air. The hard frozen granules pitted his skin and scraped his hands and face; the ice numbing even as it wounded.

He'd heard a loud sound behind him, a gunshot, and had managed to roll to his side, still struggling for breath. There was a river of blood in the mud, but he couldn't see the source, and then he was abruptly jerked up by his arms. Pain shot through his shoulders; he'd tried to twist his head to see his family, but his eyes had been blinded by tears of pain, and he stumbled when he was pulled forward into a side street and shoved into a waiting groundcar.

“I never saw my family again.” The crackle of the fire seemed louder. Kirk raised his hands to the fire, feeling its inconstant heat, remembering he had once thought he'd never be warm again. The ice had entered his soul that day; forming a hard cold core; a place where he could retreat when needed, a place that would keep him safe, untouched.

He shivered, and hated the weakness. The heat on his hands was almost painful; cooler air chilled his back. But also behind him another fire burned, one that he yearned, beyond anything, to touch. 

He didn't move, didn't turn away from the physical fire in front of him to the mental fire behind him. He refused to sacrifice his soul. Warmth was a temptation that was easy to resist.

Without needing to see him he knew when Spock stood up and moved closer to him. He turned away from the fire when he was confident that his face wouldn't betray him, that the tears he had always feared revealing were still safely frozen inside him.

Spock's eyes were alive with pain and sympathy. His hands were clasped behind his back. He was standing a safe few feet away. “I grieve with thee.”

The words carried the weight of ritual. He didn't know how to respond.

He forced his emotions back within their protective casing of ice. He glanced toward the door. “Where's Daniel?”

Spock responded hesitantly. “Daniel... has found other accommodations.”

Kirk wasn't surprised—Daniel's dislike of him was palpable—but somehow even that presence of simmering resentment was better than this: to be alone with Spock. He hadn't wanted to remember his past; hadn't wanted to dredge up all those old feelings. Why had he told Spock about this? 

Spock stood and moved a bit away from him and Kirk was grateful for that distance. “They will need my help with the Nighthawk for the next day or so. After that... I can take the time and privacy I need to meditate. Then I will break the bond between us. You will be free to go.”

“Thank you.” Kirk knew he should be grateful at hearing Spock's words, but all he felt was numb. He blamed it on a sudden exhaustion. Spock, too, looked drained of energy.

“Let's go to sleep,” he said, and without waiting for a response, chose the bed Daniel had taken the night before, the one furthest away from Spock. He climbed beneath the covers and lay down with his face to the wall. The lights dimmed; he could tell Spock was banking the fire down. He didn't turn around, merely noted the small sounds indicating Spock was also preparing to sleep.

He stayed awake long into the night, and somehow in the silence, knew that Spock was doing the same.

*****

Kirk looked around the eating room with interest. They'd risen early, but had stayed silent as they'd showered, dressed and stepped outside into bright sunlight and early morning air. He'd taken in a deep lungful of it, wishing the fresh air would give him a feeling of renewal and hope. What he felt instead was a growing sense of separation between the two of them, as if somehow Spock were building a literal wall between them.

The noise and chaos of the eating room was a welcome tool to drown out the uneasy feelings simmering in his mind. Dozens of members of Spock's family were queued up before the cold food stations. Spock had selected tea, breads and fruit, and he did the same, choosing strong coffee for his own beverage.

Spock had chosen a table set back apart from the rest and they'd taken their seats. But they hadn't been there more than a moment when William had drafted Spock into working on the recalcitrant hot food processing unit, and they'd left him there at the table alone.

He'd watched for a few minutes as groups of people had gotten up from their own tables to press in around where Spock and William were working. He heard any number of suggestions as to what might be wrong with the unit, what part was needed to fix it, and what kind of part could be substituted when the first one was found to be damaged. More people came in from outside and immediately gravitated to the crowd in the corner. There was an ease among them all, the casual informality of long knowledge of each other. Kirk noticed, with some surprise, the way people spoke to Spock was no different than the way they directed comments to William, or each other.

Ordinarily, Kirk would have stepped forward as well and joined the crowd. It had always been easy for him to be in groups of people, easy to make connections, to size people up, to converse, and, often, to lead and direct anything that needed to be done. Now as Spock and William gutted the machine and spread its component parts on an adjacent table, and the crowd of people surrounding them offered more comments, observations and suggestions, he was surprised at the sense of isolation he felt. 

He turned his attention away from the crowd and looked instead at the dozens of paintings that covered most wall panels in the room. The styles were wildly varying, the execution ranging from crude to masterful, the subjects anything from semi-abstract shapes to landscapes, starscapes and portraiture. No two were alike.

The one nearest him depicted two young women dressed in spacer's gear standing against a starfield. One was blonde, one redheaded. A small ship hovered against the blackness of space directly above their heads. Both stared directly out at the viewer. Each woman appeared to be at once on the cusp of adulthood, and just past that point, already full of experience. Expectation and fulfillment. Their faces seemed filled with confidence of their place in the universe.

He looked away, stared down into his plate and ate mechanically, not tasting anything that he swallowed. He had no place here. That much was obvious. He needed to get this thing settled with Spock, and then he could go offworld. If the Graysons couldn't take him back to Tarsus, surely he could be dropped off on a Fringe world. He could make his way back to Tarsus from there. Perhaps everything wasn't lost. If what Spock had told him was true, Selene had been so excited about the political possibilities of bringing a new telepath to the Terran Federation for the advancement of her career she had never told Kodos about any of the knowledge she had learned of the plot against him from what she had learned on her forays inside Kirk's head. Perhaps some of his friends, his co-revolutionaries had survived, and they could regroup, form new alliances, begin again. Whoever had betrayed them—and he had a pretty good idea who that person was—hadn't known everything. Perhaps there was something that could be salvaged.

His return to Tarsus would have to be carefully planned. But with the money from his share of the Nighthawk, he could begin everything again. And this time, he wouldn't fail. This time, Kodos would be overthrown.

Kirk finished the last of a juicy green fruit and glanced up at the group gathered in the corner. Spock was still intent on his work. People were still crowded close, full of comments and suggestions. Spock responded without taking his attention from his task. Kirk watched as Spock set one tool aside, reached for another and made an adjustment. 

Suddenly feeling the need to be actually alone—instead of this illusion of being in company—Kirk stood up. 

“Don't go—I was hoping to have the chance to talk to you.”

He glanced to his left. Sarah was approaching, and without waiting for his reply, sat down in the chair Spock had vacated. He resumed his own seat, and waited for her to speak.

She glanced over to the food processing unit. Spock had taken a different access panel off the equipment. His hands made sure, clean movements as he disconnected something inside the wiring, and removed a modular piece.

“He seems so at home here,” Kirk commented.

“He is at home here. He is of our Blood.” She watched him with patience in her eyes.

“But he's an alien.”

“He is Family. We protect our own.” Kirk heard both an invitation and a promised threat in her tone. The weariness in her face didn't disguise the hard core beneath.

Kirk contemplated her, and considered her age, as compared to Daniel's or Spock's apparent ages. “I find it hard to believe he's half human.”

“I'm sure you've never seen a halfling before... just heard rumors—”

He laughed and shook his head. “There are plenty of halfbreeds on Tarsus. Half-Orion. Half-Andorian.”

“'Half-breed' is an ugly word.” She didn't look particularly disturbed by his use of the term.

“It's an ugly universe.” 

She settled back, crossing her arms. She offered him a nod. “True.”

Kirk's gaze lingered on Spock. “I've known aliens before. We have several working at the House of Flowers. But I've never met one like him.” He turned his attention back to Sarah. “He told me a little bit about where his people came from. Were you there at the time? Did you know his parents?”

Her grey eyes studied him out of her angular face. “Did he tell you about how his people met ours?”

“He said their ship had been exploring when it had encountered one of yours.”

She nodded. “One of our family ships, the Poseidon, had ventured past the Fringe, prospecting. My uncle, Aaron, was the captain.”

“How old were you at the time?”

“17. We'd made some interesting discoveries-—nothing very valuable, unfortunately. It was very exciting, to be out there that far into unexplored space. I was studying astrochemistry, and this was the perfect opportunity to learn so much. Amanda, too. We were having so much fun. But then, we met up with an alien ship unlike anything we'd ever seen before. It was huge—we found out later that there were several hundred people on board. We were fast, but knew we didn't have any sort of chance if this ship was hostile and had weaponry equal to the appearance of their technology.”

Kirk found himself leaning forward in fascination, listening to her narrative, imagining himself living the life she was describing. Her face, marked with time and cares, had softened, and he caught a glimpse of the girl she had been.

“But they weren't hostile,” Sarah continued. “It turned out it was easy to communicate with these aliens. They had a device which translates language. We called them Vulcans; what they call themselves is too hard for us to pronounce.”

“Where is Vulcan?”

“It's so far away that it would take over decades for one of our ships to get there. The Kon Tahr—their ship—was much faster than anything humans have.” A small smile played around Sarah's lips. “Our people—hit it off, I guess you could say. They were curious about us; we were curious about them. Sarek—Spock's father—had lost his wife. She'd died in an accident. But then he met my cousin—Amanda. And they... fell in love.”

“Spock said it was much more than that. He said it was some kind of psi attraction between them—”

“He wouldn't have used that word.” Ice had entered her voice, hardening her gaze.

He spread his hands slightly in conciliation. “No. He didn't.”

She relaxed fractionally. “All Vulcans are telepaths.”

“He told me that.”

“They must establish a psychic connection with their mates—it's part of who they are. They called it t'hy'la.”

She pronounced it differently than Spock did, and yet Kirk's hands clenched at the repetition of that alien word.

“I cannot believe a human woman would willingly accept that.”

Sarah's gaze showed a depth of understanding that Kirk found uncomfortable to look at. “You didn't ask for this. I know.”

Kirk felt himself draw back in his chair, a minor move to take him further from her unwanted understanding. “Why would any human agree to having something like this done to her?”

“It wasn't something Sarek did to Amanda. She was willing. A circuit cannot complete with only one end.”

His eyes narrowed, and he considered the possibility that Sarah was being deliberately deceptive. “I'd like to believe you're telling me the truth. But I did not agree to this.” 

“And that is why he is letting you go.”

He digested that. “I still would like to understand. This deliberate giving up your mind to another—”

“It's not giving up your mind. It's finding your partner—your perfect match.”

“Have you experienced this yourself?”

She stiffened at the challenge in his voice. “No. Not in that way. My husband was as human as you are.” 

“Was?”

“Dead. These many years.” Her expression didn't change. “He was a good man. We fought all the time, but had good times, too. But sometimes... I envied Amanda. She had something I never would experience, and she was happier in a way I've never seen anyone be happy.”

“You haven't convinced me that wasn't some alien influence—and she only thought she was happy.”

Sarah leaned forward abruptly, bringing her face within inches of his. “She told me she loved him more than life itself.”

He didn't flinch, and she pulled in a deep breath, sat back, and folded her hands together. A hint of irony twisted her mouth, a ruefulness of what she had just revealed. “She was the first human to marry a Vulcan, but she wasn't the last. There were other Vulcans who had not yet been mated—young, mostly, not mature. Bonds formed between them and humans. Some of my uncles and aunts didn't like this. It wasn't so much an issue of humans and aliens marrying, having children. But telepathy—a lot of people on the Zeus didn't like that. There was a lot of controversy. A lot of ugliness. But as far as Amanda and Laramie and Nicolas were concerned, none of that mattered. They were with the people they were meant to be with. And, as far as the Vulcans were concerned, once the Bond is formed, nothing could be done.”

“I can't believe that.” He saw the way Sarah flinched from the anger and disgust in his voice, but couldn't regret his tone. “I'm sure it was all right for your cousins—or perhaps it wasn't. Can you honestly tell me they weren't forced into it somehow, by some alien hypnosis?”

She laughed. “James. I know Spock. I knew Sarek. No. They are a very ethical people. A very gentle people. They would not coerce anyone into an unwanted relationship.” 

“And what about T'Pring? His wife?”

“I didn't know her that well. Amanda went to live on the Kon Tahr; I stayed on the Poseidon. We visited, of course, whenever our ships were in the same area. I missed Amanda—she was like a sister to me.” She tilted her chin at the picture of the two young women. “That's Amanda. And myself.”

He studied the painted faces again, comparing the exuberant energy in the face of the redheaded girl with the hard-edged reality of the woman before him. “You were very young.”

“We were never... very young. Were you?”

“No.” He acknowledged that truth.

“As for T'Pring, I saw her, of course, every time we met up with the Kon Tahr. I watched her grow up, as I watched Spock grow up. She was a beautiful girl, very intelligent. Reserved, quiet, But they were all like that.”

“Spock told me that their ship was destroyed.”

“Yes. By the Feds. The Vulcans didn't seem to understand their danger—or felt they were capable of dealing with any threat. They continued exploring, venturing further to the fringes of Fed space. They weren't looking to make contact with the Terran government; but they were insatiably curious. They were caught by surprise by a battlecruiser. And destroyed.” She paused, and her eyes revealed shadows of old pain. “We only found out about this much later. Rumors reached us, and then facts, about how the glorious Terran Federation had destroyed an alien intruder. The Administrator took all the credit for it, of course—glorying in his ability to keep Terra strong and protected from the alien invaders who would destroy her. But we didn't know any of this at the time. We did know something terrible had happened. Spock collapsed one day—he was onplanet at the time—he just collapsed, as if the life had suddenly been stolen from him. We lost all contact with the Kon Tahr at the same time.”

“And what happened to Spock?”

“He was in a coma for weeks.”

The main door slammed open. The room quieted for a moment, as Daniel Grayson stalked in, then people turned back to their food and companions. Kirk watched him stare at the crowd around Spock and William, who were still working on the broken food processing unit. The Daniel turned, spotted Kirk and Sarah seated together and shot them a resentful look.

Just as quickly, he strode over to the drink area, slopped coffee into a cup, grabbed it and paced over to the what was left of the cold food laid out on the buffet table.

Kirk saw Spock turn his attention from the pieces of the food processing unit and look at Daniel. A pained look crossed Spock’s face, but if Daniel was aware of Spock's gaze, he didn't betray any evidence of this. William said something to Spock; Spock turned back to his work, and the crowd around them almost self-consciously began their chatter again.

Sarah tilted her chin toward William. “You see the man working with Spock? That's William Hemfall. I know you're aware we do—political work.”

“My other guess—considering we brought with us a hold full of lifetubes—would be slave traders. And somehow you don't seem the type.”

She gave him an ironic smile. “We rescue dissidents from the Terran system. William was one of the people we rescued. We retrieved him and dozens of others from a prison ship on one of our first rescue missions.” She nodded toward the tall blonde woman hovering nearby her husband. “He and Tam hit it off. Most of the people we rescue we send on to one of the Fringe Worlds. Instead, he stayed here with her, became one of the Family, and now he is one of our best pilots.”

Kirk felt himself smiling at her transparency. “Love at first sight.”

She caught the expression and offered a rueful grin. “I was being obvious. But it has worked out for them.”

“They're both human.”

“Spock is half human. And he's lived with us for most of his adult life.”

“It's not that easy.”

“It is that easy.” Sarah's voice and eyes were fierce. “Your life changes in an instant. You go on.” She looked at Daniel, who had settled at a nearby table, and was giving them a dark and ugly look. “Or you don't.”

Kirk considered his life had changed more than once between one moment and the next, but said nothing.

“Fuck!”

Everyone in the room stopped whatever they were doing to stare at Daniel, who had knocked over his coffee cup. Brown liquid was running in a quick stream off his table.

Daniel was already standing. He swept the room with a challenging stare, then strode out the main entrance.

Sarah sighed. “I'll be glad to get back into space. Once the three of you settle things about the Nighthawk—whatever you decide—maybe he'll calm down. Though I doubt it. I think he'll be worse.”

She drummed her fingers on the table, and when she resumed, her voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “When the Kon Tahr was destroyed... We lost Daniel then, too, in every way that counts. He was 20 at the time. He lived on the Kon Tahr, along with his wife Leora. He and Spock were onplanet, but Leora had stayed behind on the Kon Tahr. After she died... I didn't know him all that well then—he's so much younger than I am. But people who did know him well told me the best part of him died with his wife. He went crazy, when we got the news about the Kon Tahr. The only thing that seemed to keep him alive was watching over Spock, taking care of Spock. They'd grown up together, as if they were brothers. But after Spock came out of his coma, Daniel disappeared. He took his ship and went out into space and we didn't see or hear from him for over a year. It was as if Spock was his last link to his past, to his wife—but he couldn't deal with it when Spock woke up, and Leora was still dead. Daniel abandoned his children. I’d already raised my own children; I didn’t expect to be doing this again, at my age. Now, I’m more of a parent to them than he ever was. When he came back to us… Everyone understands why Daniel is the way he is. We’re cautious with him. You should be, too. He hates you, you know.”

“Yes. I know. But I’ll be gone soon.”

A flash of pain crossed her weathered face. He leaned forward, watching her face intently. “Why did Spock go into a coma?”

“Because of the sudden breaking of the telepathic bond with his wife.”

“Sudden. Unexpected.” He fixed Sarah with a demanding gaze. “What will happen to Spock when he breaks the bond with me?”

She hesitated, and Kirk pressed the point. “Daniel told me he'll die.”

Her gaze snapped to his face. “He did, did he? When was that?”

“When we were in the brig on the Nighthawk. The psi took Spock away, and Daniel and I had a little... conversation.”

Sarah stared bleakly off in Spock's direction for a long moment. Her hands, clasped in her lap, tightened. 

“What will happen to Spock if he breaks the bond?” Kirk repeated. “Will he die?”

The skin around Sarah's eyes looked crumpled, exhausted. “Nobody knows.” 

Kirk heard in her voice what her words didn't reveal. “Sarah...”

Spock snapped the food processor shut. People were already lining up for hot food. Spock straightened, turned—and looked directly at Kirk.

Just as quickly, he looked away. But Kirk had felt for just a moment the sensation of a door, being about to open then slammed firmly shut again.

He kept his gaze on Spock. “And what about homosexuality?” 

“Those are Terran prejudices.”

“Not just Terran prejudices.” His voice was mild, and he knew his eyes revealed nothing when he glanced back at her. “Most of Tarsus feels the same.”

She snorted. “Grounders! Grounders set down their roots, some deep and narrow, and their attitudes go narrow like the roots. We fly free in space. We freed ourselves of the ground four generations ago.”

He didn't smile at the unconscious arrogance in her voice. “And no trace of the ground followed you, then? Aren't some of you 'grounders'?” He tilted his head toward the door, and by implication to the colony beyond.

She conceded his point with a quick lift of her eyebrows. “Nothing is ever simple, is it, Kirk?”

“Some things can be simple.” He was watching Spock again. “You said it yourself. Some things change in a moment.” He gave her an enigmatic smile and got to his feet.

She stood up herself. For an instant, the painted, confident eyes of her younger self stared out from her portrait past Sarah's shoulder, then Sarah took a half step to one side, eclipsing the image. Her own eyes, hard and uncompromising, examined his face.

“I wish you well, no matter what happens.” She turned and walked away.

He waited for a moment before leaving the building himself. He did not want her to think he was following her; he had no desire to continue this conversation. The only thing he needed right now as the fresh air, and the sight of the morning sun climbing up the Arkus sky. 

He paused just outside the main door and looked to the east. There, at the end of that road, was the Nighthawk; up there in the sky was his destiny. Only a few more days, and he could get on with his life.

*****

Spock didn't come back to the guesthouse that night. Instead, Kirk found a message waiting for him on a padd: Spock had found sleeping accommodations elsewhere. 

It was odd, sleeping alone in that prefab building. Several times, over the next few nights, he found himself lying awake, his brain teaming with a thousand images, a thousand scenarios. He had made decisions about his life in the past, but never before had he been so removed from other concerns. His future was a complete unknown, a blank which he filled in mental scenarios with all of his dreams and fantasies from childhood, and the colder, harder plans he had so recently failed at achieving.

He didn't see much of Spock over the next few days. Left to his own devices, he wandered through the colony, talking to anyone who had a minute to spare. Many of the colonists were clearly curious about him and took the time to speak to him. He explored the small community, which stretched out in several miles in every direction. The further out he went, the more farmland he saw, clustered around large farmhouses. He began filling in a mental mosaic of this world, and the Graysons and all the people who loosely belonged to the Family.

He visited the landing pad several times. The Nighthawk was in the process of being transformed inside and out into something the Terran Federation would never recognize. 

Standing in the ship’s enormous shadow, watching its transformation as its new protective coat was applied, Kirk was filled with admiration and desire. He rested one hand against an enormous strut, aware that he felt a sense of possessiveness towards this ship. 

He took his hand away, smiling ruefully at his own fantasies. This ship was not for him. There was nothing on this planet which lay in his future.

He stared up at the starry sky. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, I’ll go home. But what destruction would he find there? And how long would he survive.

*****

I found Spock in the Nighthawk's hold, which was now stripped bare of all extraneous materials. He had a tricorder pressed to the metal skin of one of the walls and was examining the readings. I stood and watched as, every few seconds, he moved the tricorder a precise distance to the left and took additional readings. Without pausing or taking his attention from his work, he said, “Daniel.”

I had intended to discuss how the work on the engine recalibration was progressing, but instead I blurted out, “You're sleeping over in one of the meditation chambers.” 

“I am.” His voice was as calm and measured as always. Since he hadn't changed position I couldn't read his face.

Still, I'd learned what I wanted to know. He had separated himself from Kirk. I was glad he couldn't see the smile on my face. But that smile, just as quickly, vanished. “Spock.” I paused. I didn't know how to say what I needed to say. Just the thought of Kirk filled me with such rage I could barely speak, and yet I had to know. “Can you do this?”

“Do what, Daniel?” He turned at last, and raised an eyebrow at me.

For some reason, that expression made me angry as well. “Can you get rid of Kirk—break the bond—without—well, without what happened when T'Pring...?”

An expression of pain, quickly concealed, crossed his face. “This is nothing like my bond with T'Pring.”

“It couldn't possibly be anything like your relationship with her. That was planned—meant to be. This Kirk—he's just an accident.”

Spock gave a convulsive swallow. “Yes. An accident.” He turned his attention to the tricorder, as if those readings were the most important thing in the world to him.

“I just wanted to find out—you are going to be all right. Aren't you?” The words I had flung to Kirk in the prison cell— That means he plans to die—had been haunting my dreams. 

He did not look up from the readings flashing across the tricorder's viewscreen. “I do not know if I will be 'all right', Daniel.”

“But you did survive the breaking of one Bond—a true Bond, not this accident.”

His entire body stiffened. I regretted the words, but I didn't retract them.

“Yes. I did.”

“And you can survive this?”

He turned back to me, a hard fire in his eyes. “The future is unknowable, Daniel. I prefer not to speculate.”

I didn't want to ask. I had to ask. “When will you do it?”

His gaze returned to his tricorder. “Barring unforeseen complications, my part in the work will be complete tomorrow morning. There would be no reason for further delay. I anticipate taking this step at some point tomorrow evening.” He took a step toward me, and I could feel barely suppressed emotion radiating off his body. “Daniel—do not interfere. I will survive, or I will not, but, regardless of the outcome, I will need privacy to do this thing properly.”

“Spock... good luck.” His gaze softened, and then he smiled, as he rarely did. He laid his fingers lightly on the back of my wrist.

“Thank you, Daniel.” He gazed around, his glance encompassing the hold of the Nighthawk, and so much more. “I regret the loss of the Leda.”

As we both regretted the loss of so much more, but we certainly weren't going to have that conversation. “Yeah. Me too.”

He placed the tricorder against the wall in yet another position, and I took it for the dismissal it was.

Restless, I went back to the upper levels of the ship, and found Kirk talking to Solea. Was there anyone in the community he hadn't talked to? He'd been everywhere the last few days, always talking to someone different. He didn’t like it when he caught me watching him, but that just made me smile. Who gave a crap? He was acting like he was thinking of joining the Family after all, but I knew that wasn’t not true. 

Every time I saw him, I wanted to smash his face into bone splinters. Solea, clearly charmed by his smile, treated him with a smile of her own.

Hot rage nearly overcame me. I sucked in a mouthful of air, and then decided to head down and join Scotty in engineering. That would be a smarter thing to do than beating up Kirk.

The white-metal bones of the Nighthawk flashed past me as I climbed down the access tube to the lower level. I found Scotty kneeling in front of a gutted control panel.

“Hey, Scotty. Need a hand?”

“Sure, lad. Grab that toolkit, will ya?”

I joined him on the floor and admired the exposed guts of the ship. The Nighthawk is such a kickass ship—much better than the Leda. Spock and I would be able to do so much with it.

Just a few days, and Kirk would be gone, and Spock and I would be heading out to space again. Maybe we'd do another mission to Terran space—use their own goddamned warship to kick them in the teeth.

I grinned at the thought, and Scotty grinned back.

“Bonnie piece of machinery, isn't she?”

“That she is. That she is.”

I was itching to get back into space. I hated being on the ground. Now that I knew that Kirk would be gone soon, I could think of making plans again. 

Everything was going to be just the way it was before Spock went to Tarsus. And we'd figure out something else to do next time he goes into pon farr. We can't go back to Tarsus, of course, but that's not the only solution. There are whores everywhere.

“Could ye hand me that calibrator?” Scotty held out one hand without looking at me. I handed him the tool and focused on the work. A bonnie piece of machinery, indeed. And soon to be mine.

*****

Spock found the sensation of the grassy path beneath his feet oddly sharp, as if every blade of grass was delineated beneath the soles of his boots, transmitting their individual texture to his skin. The air, as well, seemed extraordinarily crisp, the late afternoon light as beautiful as he had ever seen it, a suffused golden glow from the Arkus sun illuminating the high-flying white clouds which concealed it, their color a fascinating contrast to the pale blue of the surrounding sky. 

His work on the Nighthawk was finished. Sarah had charge of all of his affairs. There was only one final task remaining to be completed.

He looked to his right, to the man just a finger's touch away. Jim was striding easily up the steep path beside him. The way to the Human temple was broad enough to allow them to walk side by side, and Spock found himself grateful for the moment: to be standing by this man's side. He rarely found his occasional glances returned. Instead, when he looked at Jim, the other man was always surveying the revealed vistas: either the path ahead or the valley below.

Calm. His meditation had granted him that—a true serenity, unimpeded by negative emotion. Spock realized that he still possessed a paradoxical sense of pride. For what was pride, after all, but yet another emotion? Yes, he felt pride, an ironic after-effect of his success in defeating all other emotion. He had not slept the previous night, but instead had spent it in the deepest attainable level of meditation, and now all the impurities that had infected his mind had been cleansed. Despair, the fear of death, the fierce longing for Jim, the need to cling to life... All conquered. 

For some time now he had wondered what purpose it filled for him to continue with the practice of parhavt'hal. There were none of his father's people to see, to approve, or condemn any failings on his part. Following parhavt'hal was old habit, nothing more. But now... now it was time to rejoin his father's people, if only in death. He would carry on their traditions for a little while longer. He would follow Logic. It was all that he had left.

And yet... he allowed the illogic of innocent sensation to impinge upon his mind. Aware that his life might now measure in hours, not years, Spock found pleasure in every physical sensation he experienced. The feel of the earth beneath his boots, the flex and pull of his muscles in the minor exertion of climbing the steady uphill grade of the path to the temple, the chill of the air filling his lungs, the visual images of his breath expelled again in puffs of vapor—all these things reminded him that it was good to be alive.

The sun broke through the clouds, and he welcomed its touch on his skin; considered the contrast in the way the cold air also claimed his hands and his face; experienced the way his long coat protected the rest of his body from the chill. 

But even more than savoring the sensations of life in his own body, he welcomed the presence next to him, so tangible to him in so many ways. He heard the way the air moved in and out of Jim's lungs, he smelled the tang of Jim's body. Jim had been exerting himself today, helping move large containers that, even with the aid of antigravs, required effort and precise work. The scent of his sweat lingered on his skin, mingling with the dry overnotes from the cloth of his work clothing.

Sight. He took yet one more glance at Jim, who was now looking downhill toward the settlement. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the bare branches of the trees and lit gold fire in Jim's hair, a sharper, clearer color than the litter of fallen leaves scattered on the ground. Jim turned to Spock and gave him a spontaneous, easy smile The sunlight highlighted flecks of amber and green in his eyes. 

Beauty. He was beauty. Spock closed his eyes against that perfection. He could hear his breath, Jim's breath, mingling with the wind as it caressed their hair and skin. He held Jim's image close to him.

He contemplated the human emotion of love. 

Love. For a stranger.

He opened his eyes. He discarded the emotion; it fell from him as gently as the final leaves falling from the winter-stripped trees joined their desiccated companions carpeting the ground.

Jim had turned his attention to the path ahead. Spock's gait never faltered. Each step he took was precise and measured. Whatever emotion he felt when they topped the hill and entered the small clearing where the temple and its outbuildings lay, he forced it to remain stillborn.

Jim moved to an overhang and looked down at the colony, clearly visible through a break in the bare-branched trees. “It seems so idyllic. Aren't you afraid you'll be found? If not by the Feds, than by others? The Fringe worlds aren't always peaceful.”

“We have reciprocal agreements with those in the area who might consider attacking us. We do have wealth here. We grow botanicals which are highly prized on many worlds.”

“I'm surprised you haven't been attacked.” 

“We aren't naïve enough to believe those agreements make us safe. We have weapons systems, both embedded in ground facilities, and in orbiting satellites. And if... when the Terran Federation penetrates this far... we have enough lifetubes, and enough ships to carry them in, to transport the entire colony offworld. Our orbital sensors would give us sufficient notice—at least for any ship Terra is capable of fielding now. All our people carry communicators at all times. There's a specific signal for an evacuation. I have every belief that all, or most, of our people would survive any such invasion or attack.”

Jim contemplated the colony for a moment longer, then turned to the building that lay just ahead. The octagonal building was situated in the central part of a clearing. Dark wood columns supporting a canted wooden roof punctuated by ivory-colored walls. A few other, much smaller buildings lay scattered under the surrounding trees, resembling tents with half-height walls supporting A-frame roof structures.

Jim glanced at those buildings. “Meditation chambers,” Spock explained. “Suitable for one person. I have been staying in one of these for the past three days.”

Spock opened a plain wooden door at the front of the main building and they went inside.

Kirk paused just inside the threshold, studying his surroundings. The building's interior was one large room. The floor was carpeted with a pale, neutral material. A few low backless couches were arranged in a semicircle, leaving most of the interior space bare. Most of the interior walls were blank, composed of some material which seemed naturally semi-luminous. One wall wasn't blank, however, but contained the glowing image of a woman.

She stood tall and straight, larger than life, clothed in some archaic flowing clothing, a stylized helmet on her head. Her steady gaze looked directly out into the chamber, and Kirk imagined she was looking right into his eyes. One of her hands gripped the hilt of the sword; the tip of its blade rested on the ground at her feet. Her other hand was crossed over her stomach; on her forearm perched a bird with large round eyes.

Kirk had seen the image before, in his childhood. “A goddess?”

Spock glanced at the image. “Yes. There are those here who follow certain Terran religions, and the walls are programmed to display the image of their choice. Whoever last visited here wished to meditate upon this image, and it will linger until the next person chooses another image.”

“Do your people have any religious beliefs?”

“Not anthropomorphic ones, no.” Spock hesitated. “It would be difficult to explain Vulcan concepts, but they involved a type of energy net connecting all sentient life together.”

Kirk studied the image, the way its eyes seemed to connect with his. “Some in my colony worshipped the gods of the seasons. When we first arrived... I think they were finding ways to adapt Terran beliefs to Tarsus. It's not something I’ve thought about in many years.”

Kirk focused his gaze on Spock. He could no longer feel any trace of the energy between them, and in that absence he found sudden clarity. “What now?”

“I will stay here, prepare myself mentally. I have meditated for some time, and feel ready to accomplish the severance of the bond. I do need some additional time to be truly prepared. I cannot say how long I will need. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps more.” Spock glanced toward the door. “If you would wait for me outside.” He handed Kirk a pack. “There is food and water inside, if you have need. If you wish to rest, you can choose any of the individual meditation chambers; they are currently unoccupied.”

Kirk curled his hand around the strap of the package. “I'll be on that overlook, then.”

Kirk went outside. He enjoyed the touch of the cool late afternoon breeze. The sound of the air as it rustled through the branches of the surrounding trees and sifted through the piles of fallen leaves brought images to his mind from his childhood, when winter had held the promise of the arrival of spring.

He walked to the overlook, then settled into a comfortable position on the ground. He felt curiously calm and at ease. Poised as he was on the brink between past and future, he knew he should be feeling something stronger—anticipation, excitement, even anxiety. But instead the peace of the wind in the trees, and the slowly dimming light as this world's sun approached the horizon, gave him a sense of tranquillity he'd rarely experienced.

Trees clung to the hillside to the right and to the left, but directly below he could see the main buildings of the colony. Further to the east were the fields, and he knew that, located to the west though concealed by an intervening hill, was the spaceport.

Lights were coming on in the colony buildings. Below the members of the Grayson family would be gathering for their evening meal. He could picture the scene—all their raucous interactions, laughter, and loud conversation. There would be the chaos of choosing tables and favorite dinner companions. 

The last three days had been a revelation. He'd talked to so many people, finding them all striking in their individuality, and just as fanatic in their dedication to their community. He'd found them full of alliances and quarrels, pettiness and pride. He had memories of all of this, from his own family, his own community, and it hit him with an odd pang: the people below were living a life much like the life his parents had intended to be his own.

He shook his head, realizing he was smiling ruefully, though there was no one there to see. There were the same passions and quarrels, the same pettiness and pride in the House of Flowers. People were people, whether farmers or whores. One life or another; people were still the same.

Golden-orange light had spread across the horizon as the planet tilted further into night. The warm colors began shifting into blues and indigos. The first stars appeared, and he focused on them instead. There was the destiny he had longed for; the dream he had never fulfilled.

He didn't know how long he waited there for Spock to return. Long enough for the sun to completely set, the sky to shift from indigo to black and fill with thousands of stars, constellations that were now, after spending only a few days on this world, already familiar to him.

Kirk became aware of Spock's presence when the other man sat down by his side. He turned and looked over at the alien face, made more so as the starlight cut his face into sharp planes of light and shadow, emphasizing the slant of the eyebrows, the pointed tip of one ear protruding from the tied-back hair.

Alien. But no longer strange. 

He smiled in welcome.

Spock settled down on the cold ground by Jim's side, and though his long coat provided protection against the chill, the cold still touched him in an odd and welcoming way. There was so little left to do now, and he was weary. Jim's face, illuminated solely by starlight, was as beautiful as ever. Spock was pleased to note he no longer felt compelled to touch the other man. The calm he had achieved during this final meditation promised true success. Jim would have his life back. That was all that mattered now.

Jim glanced up at the sky. “I've seen constellations from three different worlds now.” He let a moment of silence grow between them, and then added, “I expect you've seen them from any number of worlds.”

“Twenty-seven,” Spock replied.

He watched as Jim contemplated first one, then another sector of the sky. “I had a friend named Gary once.” Jim's voice was calm, low, flat and free of emotion. “We liked to sit and watch the stars and talk. We could see the spaceport from the palace, we could see the lights of the ships in the sky. We watched them land, take off. We talked about a lot of things. He always said he'd be the captain of a ship one day.” In the dim light, Spock saw Kirk's lips tighten. Distant starlight glittered in his eyes. “And I told him, I'd be the captain of a bigger ship. Gary laughed. It was good to have dreams, even though we both knew better.”

“Did he ever get to space?”

“No.” Kirk's eyes were unreadable. He stood, and tilted his head toward the temple. “Shall we go in?”

“Yes,” Spock said. It was time. He was ready.

Once inside, Kirk noticed that the image of the goddess had faded, until she was just a tracery on the fabric of the wall. Enough of the image remained that he imagined he could still feel her steady gaze. If this were a simple conversation he'd ask Spock about the technology. Now, though, the space between them seemed impenetrable.

Spock indicated one of the low couches. “We should both be seated. It will be necessary for me to touch your face.”

Kirk drew in a breath. The moment of decision. It was time to step into his future. “No.”

“Jim.” Spock swallowed. “Mr. Kirk. I must do this in a specific way—”

“Daniel told me you'd die if the Bond were broken.” 

Spock literally took a step back from him, and Kirk saw a constellation of emotions cross that formerly impassive face. 

“Is that true?” Kirk pressed when Spock said nothing.

Spock had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Unknown.” 

“You went into a coma when your wife died.”

“This is a different situation. This will be the deliberate breaking of a Bond. T'Pring's death was unexpected... a... shock. I am prepared for this—to do this now.”

“Are you? You told me yourself that Vulcans Bond, they do not 'unbond'. How can you be prepared for this?”

“J–Mr. Kirk. There is no point in delay. I do not know if I can succeed with this. I do not know what will happen to me. There is a high probability that, once unbonded, I can continue as I was before. And you will be free of something that is undesired on your part. Actively disliked.” Spock's eyes flashed a hard fire. “Loathed.”

“You don't know, do you? You don't know what's going to happen.” The silence between them lengthened, and then, suddenly, Kirk understood. “You're lying. You know you're going to die.”

Emotion flooded the angular face, all traces of calm burned away by sudden anger and despair. “I should have died with my people!” Spock's hands clenched into fists at his side. “Instead, I have gone on, a useless dead end! I should have died when T'Pring died. I serve no purpose in the universe.”

“Do you think anyone you've saved since then would agree with you? How many hundreds of people owe you their lives?” There was a sudden fierce passion in Kirk's voice; a need to convey to this man what he suddenly understood. “How can you say you serve no purpose? You have a family, a community, a home—everything I never had, or lost a long time ago! You have work—important work.”

“As do you.”

Kirk laughed. “On my knees?”

“You thought to cause the downfall of a tyrant. You might well have succeeded, without my presence in your life.”

Kirk shook his head. “None of what I did made any difference. Kodos is still in power.” 

“Wars are not won by a single battle.”

“Clichés aren't necessarily true.”

The sound of their breathing was loud in the otherwise utter silence. “I won't let you die,” Kirk said finally.

“I have no right to enslave you.”

“No. You do not. But I have the right to choose.”

Spock's eyes were adamantine, unyielding. “You do not desire me.”

“Oh, I do desire you.” Kirk hated the bitterness in his voice, cutting against his own arguments.

Spock heard it too. “You will always feel coerced.”

“I told you. I'm making this choice. I could as easily have made another decision. You know that.”

Spock squeezed his eyes shut. “I will not do this to you.”

Your life changes in an instant. Sarah had said it; Kirk had lived it. You go on. Or you don't. “I sat there on that ridge outside, watching the stars.” Kirk kept his eyes fixed on Spock's face. The oddly colored eyelids remained tightly shut. Kirk used his voice to demand Spock's attention and understanding. “I knew I had a choice to make. Just as you do.” The irony of his position hadn't been lost on him: sitting on the edge of a precipice; ready to make an irrevocable choice. Odd, wasn't it? His entire life, culminating in this moment. Or, perhaps, beginning—here, now. “I've made mine. I choose you.”

He waited patiently, a moment, another, until finally the other man opened his eyes, and he saw the wonder, the hunger revealed there at the sight of Kirk's right hand, outstretched toward his.

Both of Spock's hands jerked up toward Kirk's and stopped a millimeter away. Kirk raised his left hand as well and extended to where only the faintest whisper of air parted him from Spock's skin.

“Touch me. It's your choice now.” His hands hovered midair: invitation? threat? He saw both interpretations in Spock's eyes.

“Why?” Spock's voice was ragged, at the very edge of control. His lips worked, as if he planned to say something else.

“I've watched you, these past few days, and seen you for who you are. You have integrity—honesty. The way all these people—your family—accept you, include you—I've seen what high regard you're held in.” Spock's face twisted in an expression of disbelief. “This is all very rare to me. I'm used to a different world.”

“Did you never know... love?” Spock's whispered voice nearly disappeared on the final word.

Kirk carefully touched that secret place within himself that had been encased in ice for so very long. “No. No, I haven't.”

Spock didn't move his hands from where they still hovered midair, nearly touching Kirk's. He averted his gaze, staring instead at the floor. “Love is important to humans.”

“Most of us survive without it. You told me you felt your wife was a part of you. Wasn't that love?”

“I held her in high regard, at that time and throughout her life.” 

“And I hold you in high regard.” Spock swallowed; his eyes held other words, words he clearly was not ready to speak. But Kirk saw their meaning anyway. Oh, yes, you loved her. As, I think, you love me now. And that realization gave him hope and an odd frisson of fear. If it was just sex, would I hesitate? But love? You, an alien, know more about this than I do, or perhaps ever will. “And I wanted you, from the moment I saw you. But it wasn't just a meaningless attraction. There was something about you that was so different from anyone else I had ever met—so compelling. I wanted—to talk to you. To listen to what you had to say. To learn who you are. These past few days have told me who you are.”

Spock's hands curled into fists, and a shudder ran through his entire body. 

“I don't know if I love you. I don't know if I've ever loved anyone. But I do know this: if I am capable of love, I am capable of loving you.”

There was pure anguish in Spock's eyes when he finally met Kirk's gaze. “Jim...”

“But if that isn't enough—and you can honestly tell me breaking the Bond won't destroy you—do what you must. Break the Bond. Tell me to leave. I'll do that, too.”

Spock opened his hands again; they curled, palm up, and Kirk's stomach shuddered at the sight of the numerous half-healed semi-circular wounds on those palms.

“Spock...” he whispered.

“I cannot touch you.” Spock's eyes betrayed an endless depth of hunger.

Kirk suddenly understood those stigmata of pain. “Then will you allow me to touch you?”

The slanted brows contracted together. “If that is your choice.”

Kirk extended both hands at once, just enough so his fingertips brushed against Spock's—

and

they

fell

together

he felt something open in him—he screamed at the pain of this death/birth, at the naked exposure of what had never been shown to anyone before—everything was revealed—he instinctively curled in protection against the pain of that revelation and yet suddenly felt that agony healed—everything in him, magnetized, moved in a frantic rush to meet his other self—billions of connections meshing together—nanoseconds—eternities—a blaze of light more dazzling than any star, a darkness deeper than the void, and everything contained between—

Shattered and simultaneously healed; his flesh stripped from his bones, then entirely remade. From fragments, he was whole.

“I know you.” Kirk heard the words without being aware that he was speaking. The illusion of infinity, of ultimate connection, vanished. He sucked in a great lungful of air, then was abruptly conscious of his body again, his separate self. He found himself staring at his hands, now encircled by Spock's long fingers, wondering how it was that they looked no different than they had before.

Spock's eyes were still closed, but where before there had been pain on that face there was now transcendent joy.

His hands were now so tightly entwined with Spock's that they hurt, and yet he never wanted to let go. Fierce arousal flooded him; he lifted their joined arms up, moved forward and desperately pressed himself against Spock's body, grinding the length of his cock against Spock's matching hardness.

Spock's breath was coming in hard gasps; his eyes bare slits, and yet he managed to pull his hands away and lower them to Kirk's chest, holding him away. “Not here. Come with me.”

But before Kirk took more than a half-step toward the door, Spock's hand grasped his again, crushing painfully tight. 

Spock whispered hoarsely, “I find I cannot let you go.”

Kirk squeezed Spock's fingers and drew him forward. Together, they exited the temple into darkness and night air grown so cold their breath mingled in a streaming white plume. A moment later and they entered the frigid stillness of the interior of one of the smaller structures. A glowbar lit at their entry, illuminating the spartan interior. On one side of the tiny chamber, clearly intended as a bed, was a padded raised platform. It cleared the floor by bare inches, and that space was occupied by a drawer which ran the length of the platform. A polished flat black stone occupied most of the rest of the limited space. Kirk guessed it was intended as an altar or offering area, or perhaps a meditation stone. There were no washing or other water facilities. Kirk realized they had left their packs in the temple; he didn't feel in the least motivated to go back to retrieve them.

The room, at a voice command from Spock, began heating to a warmer temperature. Spock opened the drawer; Kirk had a quick glimpse of the contents and saw what appeared to be bottled water and packaged food before Spock pulled out some bedding and tossed it on the smooth surface of the raised platform.

He straightened and faced Kirk.

There was so little room to stand. Kirk moved at the same moment as Spock and the space between them vanished. Kirk spared a microsecond to laugh at himself, the consummate professional at sexuality, undone and sent out of control by this alien touch.

Spock gathered Kirk into a tight embrace and pressed his face against Kirk's, the hardness of bone meeting at cheek and jaw. Kirk moved his head around, desperate for Spock's mouth. He covered Spock's lips with his own and kissed gently, but Spock's mouth remained closed to him. Kirk used his tongue to breach those lips and invade the hot warmth within. He felt Spock shudder in his grasp, felt the intake of Spock's breath take his own breath as well. He gave willingly and demanded the same back: Spock's breath, Spock's life. His cock strained up, strident with hunger. Kirk's hands quested down Spock's back to grasp his ass and pull him closer, forcing the iron hardness of Spock's cock against his own.

Some small measure of sanity caused him to ask the question, “I thought you didn't have sex—outside your season.”

Spock's eyes held all the heat in the universe. “I do not understand—but I need you—as much as I did on Tarsus. More.” 

The deepness of Spock's voice sent flame sheeting along his skin. Words were pointless, Kirk decided, and pulled them both down upon the raised platform. There was no time for seduction, no need for the whore's art. Graceless, they grasped and rolled upon the barely-yielding surface of the bed. Spock's hands explored his ass through his trousers; he tore at Spock's shirt, flinging it out of the way. 

Spock's hands settled on his face and then they were pressed against each other, so filled with urgency that they didn't know whose hands fumbled at which article of clothing, or how they rid themselves of the obstructing fabric, or when they freed their cocks or how many times they rubbed against each other, or how much of the astonishing lightning-sharp pleasure it took to merge and complete them, their bodies and minds igniting with hunger, flashing into ecstasy, falling into eternity until peace took them into sleep.

*****

The glowbar, from its position on the wall above the bed, illuminated Spock's face, even as it obscured the rest of the tiny chamber in shadow. Kirk, on his side, naked in the room's warmth, lay there and watched Spock's face, peaceful now in sleep.

Still alien, but now familiar. Kirk recognized how much pain and strain had been on those angular features for the past several days, how much tension that tall form had carried. Now Spock was relaxed in sleep, his face calm, at peace, his limbs lax . Kirk studied Spock's body, the subtle tones of the olive skin, the long wiry black hair which adorned his chest and surrounded his now-flaccid penis and balls. He let his gaze rest on Spock's genitalia; considering how very much Spock resembled a human male, how very little apparent differences there were between them.

Sex with a stranger. Something he knew very well. He'd had sex with enemies, with strangers, with friends. But never with a lover. Never, with one he loved.

He barely recognized the concept; barely was able to admit its reality. Love wasn't something often found in Loris Town. Love was the warmth of a childhood long since gone; love was the arms of family now less than ash and dust; love was an emotion glimpsed beyond a thick plate-glass wall; a meaningless luxury in the presence of a father dead in the snow, a mother dead in Kodos' death chambers, a friend beaten to death, collapsed on the tiles of a sumptuous bedchamber, the elaborate appointments belying the blood and filth spattered across the floor.

Love had been choked out of him half a lifetime ago; revealed for the illusion it was.

Sex with a stranger. He studied every inch of Spock's body—the fine, long-fingered hand relaxed on the bed between them, the rise and fall of his chest, the delineated ribs, the column of his throat. He allowed his eyes to substitute for his hands, allowed his gaze to caress Spock's face, to travel across the angular contours of the bone structure, to trace the intricate pathway of a pointed ear. Sex with an alien.

He felt warmth inside him; in a place that had been encased entirely in ice. Home. What would it be like, to have a home? He remembered the first winter on the farm. It had been hard work, long dirty hours, and his family had often been worried, exhausted, and snappish and grouchy. He'd done his share of the work, and more, and still found time to hang out with the boys from neighboring farms. And there had been evenings around the big table in the kitchen, with good food on the table, and friends over for a long visit, when people had smiled, and if he'd thought about it at all, he would have said he was happy, because they were all truly where they belonged.

Sometimes, in the House of Flowers, when he had still been a sex worker, they would gather in the main room in the late mornings before the arrival of customers and drink coffee and gossip and compare stories about customers—always funny stories; it was better to joke than to invite pity. They had all already started looking to him for leadership, because he had plans, ideas, and he had discovered long since he had a talent for getting people to listen to him.

But early on – he had enjoyed their companionship, yes, except for the troublemakers and backbiters, and he had quickly found good ways of firing them. After he'd partnered with Rilka, and built up the business, and prospered, he'd seen further plans and bigger vistas before him. In the discussions of philosophy and tactics with Decker and Pike and the others, he'd had the occasional odd sense of being home, of belonging, even as he was driven to outfly and move on to whatever was bigger and more ambitious.

They'd thought to overthrow a tyrant. And yet he'd known, even then, there were other dreams than those confined to Tarsus.

Spock's eyes opened. He regarded Kirk with dark, solemn eyes; eyes that still betrayed disbelief even as they warmed in welcome.

You'll never be a stranger to me again. He reached out to touch Spock's face....

...Spock watched Jim's hand as it came closer to his skin, feeling the heat from those fingertips an instant before they brushed against his face, stroking along his brows, his cheekbones and lips. Spock pressed his face against Jim's fingers, letting the simple sensations wash over him. Touch, from the hand of his t'hy'la. Jim caressed him, and the imprint of each separate finger created shivering sensations along his skin which echoed along the pathway of nerves throughout his body. It was most enjoyable, and that too was odd. He had lain with T'Pring like this, each night after their completed marriage, and though their hands had often reached for mindtouch, though they had explored the pleasures of each other's minds, they had never done this thing: simple touch, done for its own sake.

Jim lay before him, half in shadow; wholly beautiful. He hungered to touch Jim's face with the ferocious craving of starvation, and yet he hesitated, still held in thrall by need too long denied. His Jim, his t'hyla, was with him now; he had permission, and yet he found his fingers curled tight, frightened to make that move.

It had been wonderful to wake to this sight: Jim watching him in the dim luminescence from the still-lit glowbar. It was wonderful to wake to this feeling. Completion. His body sang in the aftermath of contentment; his mind felt as free as a ship flying through open space after the turbulence of an ion storm. And yet he doubted. This must be an illusion or a dream, and he would shortly wake to find himself in a Fed prison or dying in the last throes of pon farr. Surely what had happened between them was a manifestation of insanity.

Sex was insanity. He glanced down at his spent penis, and wondered how this was possible. Surely his arousal and completion had been a dream, and yet every cell of his body assured him it had been reality. And yet there was no trace of fever; he had no doubts as to where he was and who he was with.

Kirk's fingers caressed up the edge of one ear, lingering on the point. Spock shivered as the impact of Jim's touch sparked tracings of fire along his nerves. Kirk paused, and Spock read a question in the expressive eyes. 

“Please tell me what you desire,” Spock whispered, hearing an odd husky quality in his voice. Kirk's pupils enlarged.

“May I kiss you?” Kirk seemed oddly uncertain, and Spock vividly recalled the kiss they had shared only a short time before: Kirk's mouth had taken his and demanded entry; he had willingly opened his lips in acceptance of this alien caress. Kirk hadn't hesitated then in the face of the fierceness of their mutual desire, but now that it was quenched Spock understood the reason for this question: the kiss, the symbol of their involuntary attachment to each other, was now being requested as a symbol of something else. A symbol of something he could not, yet, name. He thought he was completely conversant in the language of his human family, intellectually aware of all the human words that described emotion, and yet he now found all linguistic resources inadequate in the floodtide of sensation coursing through his body.

“Yes.”

Kirk moved closer, but did not attempt to press his naked body against Spock's equally unclothed form. He settled one hand on the back of Spock's neck, pulled his head forward a little on the pillow, and moved his own face to meet Spock's. His lips touched Spock's, a simple close-mouthed kiss, and Spock shifted slightly, letting their flesh graze together. His skin heated at the thought of how Kirk had used his tongue to open his mouth earlier. He realized, half-dazed, that physical touch, completely divorced from mental contact, held astonishing, undreamed-of vistas.

Kirk opened his lips and ran the tip of his tongue along the place where Spock's lips met. He gasped at the sensation, and immediately opened his mouth, eager to be shown whatever Kirk could teach him. Kirk ran his tongue carefully along the tender inner surface of Spock's lips, and he felt a jolt of pure electricity race along every nerve ending to its ultimate goal in his groin. He felt heat and hardness in his penis and yearned to press forward, to be touched there, but he hesitated, allowing Kirk the wisdom of his expertise to lead the way. It was odd, the way this need could demand, but not compel, and the fear of pon farr which had lit the back of his mind subsided again. This was not Vulcan sexuality; this was something Human; something he had not known his body could experience. It was a surprise and a wonder; he surrendered himself to it gladly.

Kirk's tongue intruded further, and he welcomed it with a tentative touch of his own. The need filling him then prompted him to do more. Kirk's mouth hungered against his, and he copied the kisses, closing his eyes to concentrate more fully on these astonishing sensations.

He heard Kirk groan, a sound, he knew, that denoted pleasure. Daring to explore the interior of Kirk's mouth with his own tongue, he could no longer deny the need of his hands to touch his beloved. He reached out blindly and his hand encountered the smooth firm muscles of upper arm and shoulder. He ran his palm along the fine-grained skin which was now moist with sweat. He allowed his fingers to trail down Jim's chest, encountering and exploring one tightly-budded nipple. A sudden rush of musk from Kirk's pores and groin filled his nostrils; he breathed the heady scent in deeply.

Kirk pulled back. Dazed, Spock opened his eyes. The Human's face was softer than he'd ever seen it, heavy-lidded eyes watching him with wonder and surprise. 

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

“Not as we have just done. No.” Spock thought of how he and T'Pring had pressed their lips together, copying the human gesture; he felt a brief stab of regret that they had never experienced this fire. He decided it would be best not to mention this. “I have observed that humans enjoy this contact greatly. I have never understood why—until now.”

“I didn't think you had.” He smiled. “I'm glad to be the first.” He reached out again, running his fingers through Spock's hair, then caressed his face, his hand falling into the meld pattern. Spock gasped in pleasure and shock.

“What is it?” Jim pulled his hand away. His expression betrayed concern.

Spock grazed his fingers against the meld points on Jim's face and instantly withdrew his hand, still stunned at the knowledge that this was now permissible. His fingertips tingled, still bathed in the aura of heat that was radiating from Jim's skin. “This is how we know each other's thoughts.”

Kirk considered that for a moment, and Spock waited for the disgust, the rejection to cross those expressive features, fearing it, even as he knew on the deepest level it wasn't going to happen.

“Will I ever know if I would have chosen you?” Kirk said at last.

Spock felt the stab of an emotion he identified as sadness. His? Jim's? Both? He was conscious of the empty space between them which, only a moment before, had been filled with touch. “I have no answer for you.” 

“I don't know you, Spock. And yet I do know you, in some deep way I can't fully understand.” Kirk's eyes searched his face, and a smile flickered on his lips. “I know this—I can trust you. I know what Selene did to my mind. Your presence there—” he briefly caressed Spock's face, “—is nothing like hers. I do know, now, you did your best not to enter my mind. Not to...” He hesitated, searching for the word. “...`Bond' with me. But I have to ask this: would anyone do? If anyone else had touched you, kissed you, instead of me? If it had been Robert, or Seela, or Nyta or any of the others at the House of Flowers?”

Spock swallowed. “A Bond would have formed if I had been free to Touch anyone during the Fever. But you... my Time was nearly over. I would have said the danger was past. But your mind called to mine. It should not have been possible, with just that kiss. But at the touch of your mouth against my skin I felt your energy and mine commingle and become one, become indissoluble. I do not believe I could have formed a Bond in such a way with another. But I do not know this as fact.”

“Circumstances throw people together. How much control do any of us have, over any aspect of our lives?” 

Spock allowed temptation to overcome him. He let the back of his hand rest against Kirk's cheek but resisted the impulse to mate with Kirk's mind. “In every way that you could, you have attempted to make your own fate.”

An ironic smile quirked the corner of Kirk's mouth. “I've certainly tried.”

“Circumstances may 'throw people together', but the choice was still yours. You could have walked away.”

“I couldn't let you die. Or continue to suffer.” 

Spock acknowledged the truth of Jim's intention. “Nevertheless, I wish that we could have met under different circumstances.”

“In that case, we might never have met at all.”

“It is odd to think how random events have led us to this.”

“Random events? Or fate?”

“I understand the concept of fate. I do not find it logical. But I have discovered... there is less logic to some aspects of life than others. You are my match. I could not calculate the odds in finding you, out of all others. Yes, I knew, past all logic, the first moment I saw you on the viewscreen, that you were my match. I knew this, at my first sight of you, but the Fever made me disregard the danger to you.”

“Love at first sight, Spock?”

“I am familiar with the saying. But do not humans choose each other in just these ways? There is no logic in human selection of mates. You act upon mutual attraction. As do Vulcans. There is a word for it—shan hal lak. My father's people make more of a ritual of it, and yet I now see it is the same.”

“Shan hal lak,” Kirk repeated. He smiled. “So your people have a word for 'love at first sight'?”

Spock considered the term. “Its literal meaning is 'engulfment', the overwhelming attraction one feels to one's telepathic match.”

“What was that other word you used? Tuh-hy-luh?”

“T'hy'la.” Spock breathed the word. 

“Soul mate?” Kirk covered Spock's hand with his own and caressed his long fingers. Spock's eyes closed and his mouth fell open in pleasure, he felt a shudder race through his body. “Well, right now what I’d like to do is to make love to you. Really make love. If that's all right with you.” 

Spock opened his eyes enough to lock his gaze with Kirk's and nodded yes.

Kirk touched one of Spock's nipples, carefully circling and rubbing. Spock felt his skin flush, felt increased blood flow to his penis, felt strong arousal—and wasn't afraid. 

Kirk was watching Spock's penis, and at his awareness of Jim's gaze his erection grew harder. He glanced down and saw that Kirk was in the same condition.

When he looked back at Jim's face, Jim was smiling. He smiled back. 

Kirk focused his gaze back on Spock’s erection. “Do you need any more proof that you're not confined to your cycle?”

“It is a surprise to me,” Spock admitted. “I do not understand this. Your human sexuality has apparently rewritten my own.”

“Has it ever been like this for you before?”

“No. Never.”

“Not even with... your wife?” At Spock's silence, he said, “I didn't meant to bring up a painful subject.”

“We mated, in the Vulcan way.” Spock's voice was a hoarse rumble. “There was affection between us, at other times, though not manifested in genital sexuality. It is the way of my people.”

“So those other humans who married Vulcans... they didn't need sex?”

“I do not know of their private lives. It had not occurred to me to inquire on such a subject, and it would have been most disrespectful to do so.”

“But you were all living together, on the same ship—how could you hide anything like this?”

“We practiced the way of parhavt'hal—the closest Standard term would mean the Concealment of outward displays of emotion.”

Kirk repeated the alien word. “I was told your people don't display emotion.”

“That is correct. It is considered immodest—indeed, quite vulgar—to display any type of emotion, through facial expression or gesture. Some things may be discussed, within the family, but only at certain times and in certain relationships. These questions you ask me—it would be permitted for me to seek answers from a father or a brother, and yet, now that I require this information, it is impossible to obtain.”

“With your family gone—your world so far away.... There’s no one to ask.” 

“No. No one.” Spock looked away. “I do not understand, some times, why I hold to the ways of my father's people. And yet, their ways define my life—this is who I am. If I let go of that, will I also let go of my own self?”

“I think we're inventing something new here.” Kirk's fingers traced a pattern on Spock's skin. “You are not just whatever your father's people made you. You are a Grayson, as well.” he brushed his fingertips against Spock's penis. Spock shuddered and thrust into the air, but the teasing fingers had withdrawn past his reach. 

Jim touched him again, his clever fingers trailing down Spock's body to draw teasingly along the length of his erect cock. Spock jerked and gasped as one of Jim's fingers circled the head, pressing gently, settling for a moment directly over the opening.

Spock thrust against the featherlight touch, desperate for more. Kirk withdrew his hand, and Spock reached out to him, needing that touch again, needing much more. Kirk's skin slid beneath his hand as the human moved down the bed, and gently used his hands to move Spock over onto his back. Spock looked at him in a haze of desire unlike anything he'd experienced in the fever—sharpened, somehow, because he was conscious of each separate sensation, stunned by the knowledge that he could be aware of who he was with, even without the mindtouch. 

“I don't suppose there's any lubricant around here?” Kirk whispered, his voice sultry.

“No—no such item is available,” Spock managed, words ending in a gasp as Kirk grasped his erection in his fist and pulled up, running his thumb against the engorged crown. 

“Well, let's try this instead.” Kirk grinned, and an instant later his mouth descended on Spock's penis, engulfing him down almost to the root.

Spock shut his eyes, all knowledge fled, lost to the sharp sweetness of the pleasure that had centered in his groin; hands clutching for purchase against the bedding as Kirk's knowledgeable mouth sucked strongly and his agile tongue traced the underside of Spock's penis. Kirk pulled back, allowing Spock's organ to slip partly out of his mouth, holding it by the head with the faintest pressure of teeth. The minor sharpness was exquisite, frustrating, and Spock opened his eyes, begging with his gaze for more.

Jim moved again, and Spock watched the top of Kirk's head as he bent over his groin, the dark gold of Jim's hair like a beacon in the dimness. Jim again swallowed his organ; with one hand he began exploring Spock's balls with the slightest whisper touches. It shot maddening ecstatic lightning bolts of pleasure directly to his brain; he found himself grasping the human's shoulders, fingers clutching tightly as the human varied his explorations—licking, sucking, then pulling away to use his hand to pump Spock's yearning shaft. 

He felt a growing pressure and movement in his balls; he realized this to be the movement of his seed, ready to burst out in orgasm. He was amazed to find part of his mind still rational. But then, without conscious awareness, his hands moved from Kirk's shoulders to the sides of Kirk's head. His mind opened even as the pressure in his penis lifted him to another level which was so intense it neared pain. Then, as he slipped into the surface of Kirk's thoughts, he could taste himself, feel the thickness of his penis filling his mouth, tongue moving against its lower surface. Kirk's mind merged into the sensation of penis being engulfed by warm mouth. Kirk's cock, suddenly desperate, demanded its need, and a hand reached down to grasp and pull.

Everything whited out.

His body shook with the ecstatic spasms and Kirk was sucking, sucking, taking in every drop, and yet he could also feel Kirk's penis, pumped by a strong human hand, reach its own pleasure and exquisite relief.

Spock's hands relaxed, falling limply to his side. He collapsed back down upon the bed. Long seconds—an eternity later—he opened his eyes to find Jim relaxed on his side next to him, watching his face. He smiled, without any trace of self-consciousness, and the human responded with a warm smile of his own.

“I felt you—somehow—as if we'd exchanged places—but I was still myself.”

“Yes.” He reached out to touch Jim's hand, tracing two fingers along the human-damp skin. “You are still yourself. Was that your fear?” 

Jim was watching the motion of Spock's fingers against his skin. “Don't you know? Can't you... read it in my thoughts?”

“There is much about you I do not know. I will not read your thoughts without your permission. I will be able to sense what you feel, but only when you experience strong emotion.” Spock continued to draw his fingers along Kirk's hand, half-mesmerized with the pleasure of touching this man, half-startled to discover the neural pathways were different with a human, that the touch of hand to hand did not create the low-level mindlink he was accustomed to enjoying with T'Pring. He forced his hand to stillness when he realized the inconsistency between his words and his actions. He met Kirk's eyes. “We are connected, yet separate. Do not fear you will be anything other than who you are.” He suddenly interpreted the look in Kirk's eyes, and knew the truth. “That was your fear. You have such courage.”

“You said it yourself—that word you used. 'Engulfment'.”

“And you thought that meant...”

“That you'd take me over, somehow. That there would be nothing left.”

“And yet you allowed this anyway?”

Kirk gave him an ironic smile. “I would have fought if you had tried. If I could. And... as I said earlier about Selene... I knew what she was capable of. And I know that—evil—isn't in you. But there's no way I can understand any of this without experiencing it.”

“The term means...” Spock searched for a way to translate the concept into something Kirk would understand. “It would have a different significance to two who are telepaths, rather than one alone.”

“And to one alone?”

“Shan hal lak, to one alone... I do not know if that is possible. I had always heard that when one experiences this—the other does, as well. The term implies both the beginning and the completion of the circuit. It also conveys the depth of the connection between two who are meant to be one.”

Kirk touched Spock's face for a brief instant. “I don't feel any different. Just...” His eyes went hazy with introspection. “...just...” His fingers tangled convulsively with Spock's. “Just... connected... in a way that—I don't know. It makes me think of being very young again. A child.” He closed his eyes against remembered pain. “Long ago, on Terra, I felt like this.”

“May I?” Spock lifted his hand and allowed it to hover over Kirk's face.

Kirk stared at him for a long moment. “Yes,” Kirk finally assented.

Spock had felt the backwash of fear and determination, and awed by Jim's strength and courage, he reached out to the other man's face. Lightly, carefully, he opened his mind just enough to touch the surface of Jim's thoughts. Images ran through his mind, some sharp, some diffuse, of people and the emotions connected with each of them. He gathered more meaning with each instant that passed. “You felt thus, with your family. You were very young, and you ran to your mother, she took you onto her lap and held you. You felt a connection between yourself and her.”

Kirk squeezed his closed eyes tighter, and a single shudder passed through him. “I don't want to remember that.”

Spock broke the contact and ran his hand over Kirk's neck and shoulder, before letting it drop to the bed between them. Kirk's eyes opened, hard and bright with unshed tears. He suddenly pressed his mouth against Spock's, kissing hard. Their teeth clashed. Then Kirk pulled back and looked away. “I don't know if I wanted you to see that.”

Spock swallowed. “If your thoughts are strong and close to the surface, if I touch you, I cannot avoid it. But there are techniques—ways I can teach you, to hide what you do not wish to be seen.”

Kirk stared at him. “Yes. I want you to do that.” He took in a deep breath, and Spock could see him deliberately relax. Kirk then suppressed a yawn.

Spock reached down to where the blanket had fallen to the floor and drew it over both of them. Now that he wasn't in direct contact with Kirk's skin, he felt chilled, and welcomed the warmth of the covering.

“Sleep now?” Kirk asked.

“Yes.”

Kirk settled in and closed his eyes. Then he opened them suddenly and moved to press a tender kiss to Spock's closed lips. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Spock echoed, sensing another shift in Kirk's emotions. He couldn't quite identify it—some mix of resolve and resolution, of a goal both attempted and achieved. It felt peaceful; he didn't question any further. He allowed his own long-delayed weariness to overcome him and slid quickly into sleep.

*****

“It’s strange to see this place so empty.” Kirk glanced around the empty settlement, struck by the oddity of the silence around them when the community was ordinarily lively with people.

“Everyone is either off in the fields or at the spaceport,” Spock explained, leading the way toward the community hall.

It was late the next morning, and after waking up long past sunrise, they had found and devoured the remaining rations in their packs. After a shower in one of the outlying buildings by the temple, they had decided to head back to the colony. 

Kirk kept glancing at Spock, quite often discovering the other man looking back at him. Nothing seemed different, and yet… There it was, as palpable as the touch of the mid-morning sun on his skin: the alien, barely perceptible touch of companionship in his mind. 

And yet this feeling was more comforting, more—settled—than the obsession he had had for Spock in the time they had been parted. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the alien, but now… Now that they had completed this Bond, it seemed this feeling was less prominent in his mind.

He felt hidden parts of himself, concealed for so very long, turn toward that sense of connection; and with it he also experience the subsiding touch of fear. This was not enslavement. He had not fallen into some kind of alien thrall. He still had choices, options, and now... now he needed to find the boundaries.

“What next?” But he knew what he wanted to do right now— 

“Shall we go to the ship?” 

He turned, startled. Spock had spoken those words even as the words formed in his head. He felt vaguely disturbed by this realization. “Yes. I’d like that.” 

Spock offered a small smile, but Kirk could see the shadow that crossed his face as well. He responded with one of his best smiles, the one calculated to convince people to agree with him, but Spock’s expression didn’t change.

All right, Kirk thought. This is going to take some getting used to.

Spock led the way to one of the storage sheds. The interior contained several two-wheeled motorized vehicles.

Spock pulled out one painted a bright metallic red and got on. There was plenty of room for Kirk to sit behind him. Kirk grinned as Spock started the vehicle. The engine caught with a loud rough purr.

Spock looked back over his shoulder. “Hold on.” Kirk wound his arms around Spock’s waist.

An instant later they were off. Spock guided the vehicle to the rutted road which led to the spaceport and then gunned the engine.

The noise of the motorcycle's engine, the wild movement as Spock drove it at speed over the smoothest parts of the road, the way the air blew around him, beating against his hair made Kirk laugh with the sheer freedom of it.

“I want to drive next time,” he shouted near one pointed ear. 

“It is quite simple,” Spock threw back. “I will teach you.”

The motorcycle shot along the road. Kirk tightened his arms around Spock and imagined driving, with Spock pressed close behind him and the speed and power of this vehicle at his command. He got hard at the thought, and had to shift uncomfortably. Instantly, he felt a flicker of amusement from Spock's mind. 

“Patience,” Spock said, and then they rounded the last curve in the road. Spock brought the vehicle to a stop. 

They jumped off, and Kirk caught his breath at the sight of the Nighthawk. What he persisted in thinking of as a 'paint job' was complete. All traces of the black Terran Federation Interceptor were gone; in its place the ship gleamed silver in the sun. The complexities of the sensor network webbed into the new protective coating—deception devices which would baffle the instrumentation of any Terran ship they encountered—had been explained to him. He thought he was beginning to grasp the principles, and now, looking at the ship's silver perfection, he was hungry to learn more about the intricacies of spaceflight.

They moved closer to the ship and Kirk paused at the sight of something else that was new: several laser-etched characters in an alien script flowed vertically down the starboard side near the pilot's cabin. 

“What is that?”

Spock contemplated the writing. “Daniel and I chose to rename the ship. I am sorry I did not consult you as to the new name, but as you planned to give up your claim to the ship, I did not feel it necessary.”

“This is written in your language—your father's language?” Spock nodded. “What is her new name?”

“The Kon Tahr.” Spock said. “That was the name of my father's ship.”

“Does that translate into Standard?”

“Yes. It means 'Venture' or 'Enterprise'.” 

“`Venture'. 'Enterprise',” Kirk repeated. He studied the gleaming silver lines of the ship with appreciation, though when he spoke a hint of sadness colored his words. “Your people had the right idea. Every Terran ship I've ever heard of was named for some kind of warfare.”

Silence settled over him as he studied the ship. Its clean lines were achingly beautiful in the bright sunshine; its sleekness and statement of power called to him, stirring restless fantasies to the surface of his mind.

From the ramparts of Kodos' palace, he and Gary had watched ships much like this one; their descent from and ascent into the freedom of space calling to him, building in him the pressure of impossible dreams. It was dangerous to dream; and yet he had clung to what seemed impossible fantasies; they had given him strength and had propelled him forward, always into an unknown future.

His hand found Spock's. Spock's fingers curled around his. He faced back toward the ship, contemplating. Their ship. 

Suddenly, new possibilities began opening to him; old plans seeking fruition; old dreams igniting new ones; everything that he had forced down into dormancy inside him broke free of its casing of ice, seeking new expression. 

He pressed Spock's hand, and when the alien turned to look at him, he tilted his head toward the ship, then looked up at the sky. “When can we go up there?”

“The refit is scheduled to be completed today. We can do a test flight tomorrow, if you like.”

“Yes.” Kirk looked at the ship's powerful body, its silver coating blazing in the sun, every line of it filled with promise. “I'm ready. Take me up there.”

The hatch opened then and people began emerging. He automatically tried to disengage his hand from Spock's but Spock held it close. They traded glances, and Kirk realized they were about to make a statement of what had changed between them.

Was he ready for this? Was he ready for all these people to somehow be his family?

He squeezed Spock's hand again. His decision had already been made. 

Tam and Sarah were the first ones out of the ship, chatting as they descended the ramp. When they reached the bottom, they glanced at them—and stopped.

Then Tam grinned. And Sarah smiled.

And Daniel, who had emerged from the ship just behind them, came to an abrupt halt.

*****

They were standing together—and I mean together. I spotted them as soon as I stepped out of the Kon Tahr. Kirk was looking up at the ship, expression rapt. Spock was standing close to him, leaning ever so slightly toward him.

Their fingers were intertwined.

Spock had always had that same posture—with T'Pring.

Anger flooded my mind—a rage so intense that I automatically curled my fingers as if grasping a weapon—a blaster, a knife, anything. My hand encountered my tool kit. 

One moment, and I had a phase adjuster in my hands. It could disrupt energy patterns, but not living energy. But you could crush a man's skull with it.

Then Spock turned to me and he smiled—he actually smiled, out where anyone could see him. And people could. I stood frozen on the gangway as people swarmed around me, as if I were a rock impeding the water flow in a stream. 

As if attracted by a magnet, that smile drew them forward and they moved around Spock and Kirk, engulfing them, embracing them as if everyone was suddenly conscious of a change. The Family had already recognized a new member. 

I walked slowly forward, still gripping the phase adjuster. I could hear them talking now—all about the wonders of the Kon Tahr, the finished sensor web, the protective coating. Nothing about the two of them. They didn't need to say a word.

Spock, taller than most, looked up and caught my gaze.

“Daniel,” he said, in a voice that had no right to be calm, in a voice that had no right to be happy, because happiness was lost in the past for both of us.

I pretended I didn't hear. I opened my fingers and the phase adjuster clattered to the ground. I strode off. Kim called after me, then she trotted after me, yammering about the phase adjuster. I ignored her, grabbed a motorcycle someone had abandoned by the edge of the strip, jumped on and revved off down the road.

*****

It was not difficult to guess where Daniel would be. Spock had recognized the need to speak to his cousin after witnessing his sudden departure from the landing field. He had, nevertheless, waited for some two hours before proceeding after him. Sarah had advised this: her stated words were “let him cool off a bit.”

Daniel's eyes glittered a hard, dangerous blue when Spock found him by the river. He was leaning against a flat rock, bare feet dug into the beach sand. Several empty bottles of beer littered the ground around him.

Daniel twisted away and directed his angry gaze at the flowing river. “So. You are Bonded to him.”

“You knew that already.”

“You couldn't break it.”

“He did not permit it.”

“Is he going to stay here? Become part of the Family?” Daniel's voice grew harder and uglier with every word; Spock felt helpless and confused in the face of these unpleasant emotions.

“I do not know. There is much we have not discussed.”

“Well.” Daniel grabbed another beer bottle and took a long slug. He continued to glare at the river. “So you've just forgotten T'Pring.”

“What I have with Jim does not negate what I had with T'Pring. I will honor her memory. Always.” When Daniel did not respond, not even by looking in his direction, he continued, “Recall that my father had two wives. His love for his first wife did not detract from his love for my mother. Both were worthy women.”

Daniel drank more beer. 

“The Kon Tahr is prepared for its first flight,” Spock offered into the angry silence. “I had thought to take it up tomorrow. Will you join me?” 

“Will Kirk be there?”

“Yes.” Spock felt himself swallow, and recognized it as a visible sign of emotion. He had repressed this trait years ago, but it had resurfaced recently, and he found he didn't have the interest to care.

“Well,” Daniel said again. “I have other things to do.” He emptied the bottle and hurled it into the sand, where it shattered against a stone. Daniel grinned at the shards. “Go ahead. Fly off with Kirk. Fine. Be my guest.”

For all that he had known Daniel all of his life, this was a type of emotion he had never encountered. Spock recalled the words Sarah had spoken to him in the meeting chamber, when he asked her what Daniel needed, but Sarah's words—No one can give Daniel what he needs, Spock—had been of no help. And she had laughed when he had said, If I were human, I would understand this, but had not explained further.

Daniel was staring at a half-empty beer bottle. There was no logic in remaining here any longer. “I will see you at the evening meal then.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Daniel lay back on the rock and closed his eyes. He held the bottle up to his lips. 

Spock turned away and headed back up the path. There was no logic in looking back, so he did not.

It was difficult, however, to understand and control the roiling sea of emotion in him. Such joy with Jim. Such sorrow with Daniel.

He had not expected to be alive today, much less with the promise of an entirely unknown future. What would Jim wish to do next? What else would change now?

He welcomed the time it took to walk back to the settlement. It allowed him to fall back on the practice of parhavt'hal. The old habit was still something secure to cling to, a way of life he understood, even as everything was changing around him.

Jim and Montgomery Scott were examining some equipment in an outyard when he reached the settlement. He heard them before he saw them. Scott was explaining the function of a piece of farm equipment he was repairing. Jim was attending to his every word, and asking perceptive questions. Spock could tell Scott was enjoying the conversation; he had a particular tone in his voice which came out when he was discussing what he loved best: working with machinery.

Jim straightened and wiped his hands against his denim pants. He stepped out to the roadside. “How did it go?”

“He is in a disagreeable mental state. He has also consumed a large quantity of beer.” 

“That laddie has problems,” Mr. Scott muttered from behind them. Spock turned to glance at him, but Scott had refocused his attention on a diagnostic panel.

“What about his sister? Maybe she can talk to him?” Kirk suggested.

“Sarah has made certain observations on his mental state which I do not understand—” Spock began.

A loud beeping noise blared. “What tha–”

Both Spock and Kirk turned and went back to Scott. At Scott's touch, the alarm suddenly shut off the diagnostic panel. Scott let loose a stream of profanity at the hapless machine.

“Here, you were helping me with this, lad,” Scott said.

Kirk look at Spock. “Do you need me for anything now?”

“Do you require my assistance, Mr. Scott?”

“No, this bluidy thing just needs a good kick—here, Kirk, hand me that linkage panel, will ye?”

“I will go to the Kon Tahr. There were some additional tests I wished to perform,” Spock told Kirk. An idea had come to him this morning as they'd stood in front of the ship. If he began work now, he would have time to complete it before their test flight.

“See you at dinner?” Kirk favored him with a smile, and Spock forsook the discipline of parhavt'hal. He returned the smile. Scott was focused on his equipment anyway, and there was no one else around to see.

“Yes. At dinner.”

He walked on, heading toward the motorcycle shed, his keen hearing picking up on Scott's continued technical conversation with Kirk.

Work. Yes, that would be a good thing. He would focus his attention on things which followed the rules of logic. They functioned, or they did not, and if they did not function, it was possible to ascertain why. Working with machinery was far easier than attempting to discover the logic of emotion. He would concentrate on his new project. He would not think about Daniel. Later, when he felt more at peace, he would rejoin Kirk.

*****

“Is it just us?” Kirk asked as they stepped up the gangway into the Kon Tahr. He was surprised by the unexpected absence of anyone else. The landing field had been deserted, and from the way their footsteps echoed on the ship's metal flooring, he guessed they were alone inside, as well. 

“Yes. As co-owners of the Kon Tahr, we may do as we wish with the ship.”

“And what about Daniel?”

“He... chose not to accompany us.”

Kirk wasn't surprised. He remained silent at the traces of hurt he saw in Spock's face, but he decided not to push the matter. He was more than happy with Daniel's absence. He continued walking with Spock toward the bridge, startled suddenly to realize their steps were in sync.

Spock directed him to the nav chair. “I have the nav computer engaged; I do not need a copilot.”

“Isn't this ship too big for two people?”

“Negative. The main complement of the Nighthawk was not crew, but military personnel—tacticians, interrogators. The Nighthawk could easily be run by a crew of five or six people. We have adapted it to be handled by two—or I can fly the ship by myself, if need be, with the assistance of the nav computer.”

Kirk followed Spock's example and strapped in, then watched intently as Spock busied himself with the controls.

“Ready?”

Exhilaration surged through Kirk. “Ready.” He grinned at the viewscreen, and then, there it was, that sudden jolt as the ship became airborne, then skyrocketed forward and up. He caught his breath, savoring the sensation. He had experienced this only twice before in his life, but had dreamed of these moments countless times.

Atmosphere rushed past and thinned. Clouds dropped away. The arc of the planet's body came into view, becoming rounder and smaller with each passing second. Stars appeared as the color of the sky changed from light blue to the deepest shade of indigo. An instant later, the sky was completely black. 

Spock touched some controls, and then turned to Kirk. “I had in mind to see the rings of Molaire. Is that satisfactory to you?”

“Wherever you'd like to go.” Kirk watched, spellbound, at the bulk of Arkus, now turning before them. One of its two small satellites was just now orbiting into view. Further away, the flare of this world's sun, bright and yellow, glowed steadily in the vacuum of space. And all around, the stars: thousands visible, billions more burning beyond the limitations of sight. 

Spock touched the controls again and the ship began to move. “We will go to the edge of this system and then make the Jump. Molaire is an interesting sight and quite a fascinating scientific study.”

“How long will that take?”

“It will require two Jumps, and approximately .5 hours in between to navigate to the Crossing Points.”

Kirk watched the viewscreen in fascination. Spock kept the cameras focused on Arkus, but it quickly dwindled to a speck of light no different than any star. Kirk heard the differential shift in the engines, something in the sound changed and cut out. For a moment it seemed they were floating in the darkness of space, coasting on inertia alone.

“Could you tell me what you're doing?”

Spock was studying his instrument panel, hands busy with the controls. Without any sign of breaking his concentration on his task, he began a highly detailed explanation of the systems check needed to make a Jump. He sat back for a moment. “We are approaching the Jump point. Everything is calculated; in 30.5 seconds we will Jump.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“I will teach you how to pilot a ship, if you wish.”

“Wouldn't it take years?” A wild excitement filled Kirk, but a glance at the complexity of the instrument panel returned him to cold reality.

“A matter of weeks, for a ship like the Leda. I learned the basics in 4.5 solar weeks. Certainly, it would take longer for the Kon Tahr. I am speaking primarily of piloting the ship, plus basic nav; systems engineering takes a good deal longer.”

“And how long did it take for you to achieve mastery.”

“That is a lifelong process.” Spock didn't look away from his controls, and Kirk felt the sudden shift, the sensation of moving more rapidly than possible while frozen absolutely in place. The stars disappeared, re-emerged in an entirely new configuration.

He drew in a deep breath. “Impressive.”

“You experienced this before, on our journey to Arkus.” Spock was looking at him inquisitively.

“That was different.”

“Different how?”

“I was exhausted then. And I didn't know my future. Not that I know it now.”

Spock contemplated him. “The future is not knowable to any of us. Would you care for coffee?”

Kirk smiled at the sudden switch from philosophy to practicality. “Sure.”

Once in the ship's galley, Kirk was struck by their solitude. The room was designed for 10 to 20 people; the cold illumination highlighted the empty space. Spock handed him a steaming cup of black coffee and raised a brow at his expression.

“You seem unsettled.”

Kirk glanced around the empty room. “I was just remembering when I was first brought on board this ship.” Selene's hypnotic gaze had left him nearly paralyzed; after days in Kodos' dungeon he had been half-delirious from the beatings and the lack of food. He had been certain he was going insane when he sensed the feel of something touching his mind. Standing before him, haloed by ship's lighting, she had seemed like an apparition from a ghost story. “The lights are so cold on this ship.” 

“The light can be changed.” Spock glanced around, and Kirk could see his gaze encompassed the entire ship, not just this one room. “We can make any changes you like.”

“We probably better ask Daniel first,” Kirk reminded him.

Spock drew in a deep breath. “Yes. We must consult with him on these decisions.”

Kirk took a bite of a bland Ship-Ration stick and changed the subject. “Why do you do your rescues?” 

Spock took a sip from a cup of steaming dark liquid. Kirk didn't much like the smell, but Spock drank it with evident enjoyment. “My life, on the Kon Tahr, was focused on exploration and scientific studies. The galaxy was a place of endless fascination for myself, and for my wife, my parents, my Vulcan family. Daniel, as well. The existence of hostilities between sentient life forms was a fact to be studied, but not personally understood.” His voice was dispassionate, but he now studied the interior of his cup, and did not meet Kirk's gaze. “Violence and warfare were theoretical matters. I knew of these things from my studies of both Vulcan and Terran history, and the evidence of wars we found on the planets and regions of space the Kon Tahr had explored. But these facts remained separate from me—apart from my life. But after the Kon Tahr was destroyed, and when I awoke...” 

Kirk could feel an aura of dark emotion surrounding Spock. How odd; that emotion was very nearly visible; he could see its shredded edges, like a dark rotten cloth, with ragged threads reaching out toward him. Then Spock did—something—and it vanished before it impacted his skin. 

He shuddered, but was impelled to reach out. He put one hand on the table between them. Spock caressed his hand with the tips of two fingers; a habit Kirk had already come to recognize as meaningful to the other man.

Spock swallowed. “It is unworthy to desire revenge, so I tried my utmost to remove that emotion from my mind. But I became aware of the needs of others of my mother's people in a way I had not before. The Graysons have always done political work—they were originally refugees from a Terran pogrom, four generations ago. They were merchants, even on Terra.”

“In legal goods?”

“Primarily.” Spock offered him an ironic brow. “The Ministry of Truth was in its infancy then. They had only begun to explore the genetic modifications necessary to create true far-range telepathic abilities in Terrans. There were few true psi then. Even now there are very few of your species who can survive the process. In those days, it was far easier to escape from Terra, particularly if one had legitimate mercantile concerns. My great-grandfather Abraham Grayson was one such. He and his siblings made regular runs of goods and materials to Terra Colony Five in the family business ships, and on each such expedition he brought family members—who did not return to Terra. Abraham himself did not return from his last expedition to Terra. There were those in the government who had discovered the lack of legitimate emigration permits for his family; he was detained and executed. Most of his siblings, children and other relatives were alerted and took the family ships and left Terra Colony Five to proceed deeper in space. They eventually made their home in the Fringe, continuing to trade, or settle on habitable worlds, such as Arkus.”

“When did you start doing these missions to Terra to rescue dissidents?”

“It is work that some members of my family have always been involved in—originally as attempts to save other family members left behind on Terra. The work continued from there.” Spock stared for a moment at the cup of tea before him. “After the _Kon Tahr_ was destroyed… When I recovered, when Daniel returned, we—spoke of our loss. Briefly. He expressed a desire for revenge. I, too, found I was unable to deny that same emotion in myself. I needed to take some action. And the Grayson family work—this was action with useful results; this was action with meaning.”

“I had thought the Terran government had completely repressed dissent. I have always heard theirs psis control the population—that you cannot even have one rebellious thought without being arrested and executed.”

“That is rumor only.” Spock contemplated their hands, still linked together. “The Terran government does not, yet, have enough trained psis to completely control their populace. Not even a majority of the population. They keep the population in check primarily through fear. The psis do not live long.”

“I didn't know that.”

“It depends on the level of native talent in the psi. There does not seem to be any history on Terra on the training of telepaths to the appropriate mental shielding techniques. Yes, telepaths have always been born into your population, but, in earlier days, it is doubtful few survived to adulthood. Before humans developed the genetic engineering techniques to protect and amplify psi talent, if a human possessed too much untrained talent, if they survived childhood it was only in an impaired way. The impact of the thoughts of too many people damages their minds, and the talent is either destroyed, or else their ability to interact with other humans in what is considered a sane manner is compromised, sometimes completely. Now, The Ministry of Truth tests children while they are still young, and when they find one with ability they immediately take them for training and genetic modification. They have gotten much better at this; more of the telepaths survive and are useful, but in order for them to be effective they must perform certain types of brain surgery. This destroys what you call the empathic center in their brain—it creates what is termed a sociopath. The psi derives enjoyment from the pain their work causes, even while experiencing it themselves. But the process—the surgeries, the other modifications—as well as the exposure to the experience of others shortens their lifespan. Thus, the Ministry of Truth is in constant need of new prospects.”

“It was pretty dangerous for you to go on those rescue missions. What if you were captured?”

“I would be just an alien. They would not know I was psi.”

Kirk smiled ironically. “But they would have brought in a psi—not just for who you are, but for what you were doing.”

An eyebrow rose. “I did not intend to be taken alive.”

“And yet you were.”

“That would not have happened—if it weren't for what happened between us. That was an unknown I failed to take into consideration. I should have recognized the danger. To you. To my Family.”

“And what about any danger to you?”

“That is of no consequence.” Spock got to his feet and cleaned the table and secured the galley. “It is almost time for the next Jump.”

Kirk followed, considering everything he had just heard. With every word Spock had spoken, the complications of his new life were unfolding in an incredibly difficult pattern. And yet he could see possibilities in the complexities, ways to use and change things. For himself. For Spock, and his family. And, for Tarsus.

Spock strode down the hallway beside him. Kirk felt out the connection between them, examining it as if he were checking an injury to see if there was still pain. The connection between them no longer seemed strange. Should I be disturbed by this? Should I be disturbed by how alien this is to me? But nothing about you seems truly alien. Instead, Kirk felt a sense of companionship, on a level he had never experienced before. But there was far more to the link between them than that. He found that if he just quietly focused on Spock, he could sense bits and pieces of the other man's life. Spock was concealing a complex web of emotion behind a stoic interior. Kirk already knew of his difficulties of being an alien among humans, of Spock's profound sense of isolation and aloneness; an aloneness that made no sense in the obvious fact of the Grayson family's complete acceptance of their alien relative.

How is it you do not know you are among your own kind? Kirk wondered. Spock caught his glance, and gave him a small smile.

They strapped in their seats as soon as they returned to the pilot's cabin, and Spock's hands flew over the controls. As before, he described what he was doing, and through the awareness Kirk now had of him he found he was understanding so much of this complicated material so easily.

Could that be it? he thought. Through this link, can he teach me everything I need to learn to do what I want to do—and quickly?

“Countdown now to Leap—10 seconds...”

This time, Kirk was prepared for the sensation of Jump, but nothing could have readied him for the indescribable beauty awaiting them when they arrived at their new destination. The bulk of a planet's body filled half the screen, colorful bands of atmosphere streaking its skies. Dozens of thin gold rings circled the planet; they were so close he could see the hard bright bodies of the individual particles circling each other to infinity. In the background was, not the blackness of space, but a swirling violet and emerald nebula, shifting slowly with some phased light.

“The rings of Molaire and Anomaly 1,451.25,” Spock said. His voice was calm, but Kirk could see his eyes were shining with interest. “I visit here, when I have the opportunity. I take readings of the anomaly—the changes within are fascinating, and hold much of interest for S'Terik's theory of alternate universes.”

Kirk found Spock's hand and interlaced their fingers. Endless moments passed as he drank in the beauty before him. Spock began speaking, telling him scientific details about the Anomaly, but though he didn't understand most of what Spock said, he heard very clearly Spock's passion for what they were seeing.

Spock finished speaking and turned to look at him. “I have something to show you.”

Kirk tried to identify the note in Spock's voice. Was that a trace of uncertainty? A hint of eagerness? He saw both those emotions, and more—anticipation—on Spock's face.

He got to his feet. “What is it?”

“It is what you would call a 'surprise'.”

“A 'surprise'.” Kirk was amused. “Those were fun, when I was a little kid.” Something flashed in front of his vision; a memory of a box bewreathed in ribbons; his tiny eager hands reaching to open it. Was I ever that young? He shook his head and followed Spock to the cargo hold.

Kirk stopped just inside the door. With all of its contents stripped away, the empty hold looked vast, cold and forbidding. 

Incongruously, a plain backless couch was placed in the exact center of the hold. He recognized it as belonging in the ship's food service area. 

He turned to Spock. “What...?”

“I find it is less disorienting if I am seated during this process.” 

“What process?” Kirk demanded.

Spock didn't say anything. Instead, he gestured toward the couch. Kirk followed Spock across the metal floor, the footsteps echoing against the metal walls.

Spock sat down; Kirk took a seat beside him. Spock looked directly at him. Again, Kirk could not interpret the expression in the other man's eyes. He's unsure of this... whatever it is. Spock reached out his hand; Kirk clasped it. “You may experience a sensation of falling. That is an illusion.”

Kirk was burning with curiosity. “All right, you have my interest. What's the surprise?”

“This,” Spock said. “Aht-lee.”

At the alien word, the walls of the hold—disappeared. Kirk sucked in a breath of air against the jolt of fear that gripped his heart at the sight of infinity. 

Hot strong fingers tightened around his hand. “Look at me.” He heard Spock's voice and turned to him, staring in astonishment at the sight of Spock's face, now displayed against the backdrop of the bulk of what Kirk recognized after a dizzy moment as the colorful bands that formed the planet Molaire. 

“Oh, my...” he whispered and swiveled his head, taking in the view that spread everywhere around him.

The cargo hold had vanished, and they were seated, incongruously on the plain couch, in a sea of stars. Ahead was Molaire, to the right was the Anomaly. In every other direction—left, up, down—everywhere—lay an infinity of stars.

The dizziness finally passed, and he realized his hand had gone numb from clutching at Spock's. He consciously forced himself to relax, and then to enjoy the sensation of floating among the stars.

“We placed a sensor web in the cargo hold, as well, as an additional precaution in case we have items that are contraband on certain planets. With some modifications, I made it possible for this entire room to be used as a viewscreen.”

Kirk felt overwhelmed by emotion. It was impossible to separate one strand of feeling from another. He felt whole, complete. 

Still disoriented from the fact that his feet appeared to be resting on nothing at all, he pulled up his body until he was seated crosslegged on the couch. Spock turned to face him. Kirk leaned forward—Spock did, as well—and their lips met, a brief, closed-mouth kiss.

Kirk pulled back from the kiss. Spock's expression was open, and the love Kirk read on the alien features sent a sharp stab of emotion through him. Love? Fear? Need? Desire? He was never going to be alone again, and the shock of that realization burned away his confusion.

He studied the alien features for a long moment. Spock sat patiently, watching him, waiting for his response.

Kirk sent one hand up Spock's left arm, a slow caress, wrist to shoulder and then up his neck, finally resting his fingers on Spock's face in the position that invited telepathic contact. Spock's eyes closed. He leaned his face into Kirk's hand, and his expression softened to one of utter trust.

He made no attempt to reciprocate the gesture; instead, after a moment, he caught Kirk's hand in his own and pulled it slightly down where he could place a kiss in the center of the palm. 

Kirk shivered, his nerves carrying an instant message of arousal to his groin. His cock swelled, and he shifted uncomfortably in his clothing.

Spock's eyes opened, fathomless in the darkness, his face overshadowed by the glory behind him. Kirk withdrew his hand and leaned forward.

Their lips met, mouths opened. Kirk let his tongue explore the contours of Spock's lips, and then invaded the interior of that hot mouth. He felt as much as heard Spock's groan of pleasure, and welcomed Spock's tongue into his own mouth, a reciprocal invader.

Spock's hands were at his waist, pushing at his shirt. He quickly stripped it off and tossed it aside, pausing in fascination to see it hit the floor of the cargo hold, invisibly suspended over an infinity of star-studded blackness.

Then Spock's shirt joined his own, Spock pulled him into a rough embrace, and suddenly it was imperative to get rid of every trace of clothing immediately.

He shoved off his boots and pulled off his denim pants and plain briefs. Spock disposed of his own clothing as well, rooting for one instant in a pocket before tossing his garments aside. The fallen fabric obscured a small section of stars, creating an odd black hole against infinity.

Spock pressed something into Kirk's hand and, he discovered he was now holding a small tube of lube. “For me? Or for you?”

“Your choice,” Spock said, words Kirk had seldom heard in his life. His erection flamed to life, hard, arching up to his belly.

“All right then.” He barely recognized his own voice, it was so thick with lust. His cock screamed its urgency, demanded entry into heat and tightness. He grabbed Spock, bringing their bodies into intimate contact, and gasped as skin impacted skin. Their cocks met, rubbed together in a blinding shock of pleasure. 

They tangled together for a moment, mouths meeting in a ferocious kiss. Kirk smiled down into the other man's eyes, which shone in the brilliant starlight.

Then Kirk urged Spock over. Spock complied, supporting himself on elbows and knees, and Kirk paused at the sight of the small tight globes of Spock's buttocks, the shadowed secret place in the cleft between them.

His pulse was pounding so hard he could swear he could feel his heart jumping in his chest; his cock throbbing in the same rhythm. In the position they had taken, the planet was invisible, all he could see was the man in front of him and an endless pattern of stars.

He fumbled for the tube, wondering at himself for being so clumsy, at the loss of all his professional skills. Then he opened it, and old habits took over. He smeared the cream over the aching length of his erection, he coated three fingers with the contents of the tube as well, and then began stroking the edges of the crevice between Spock's buttocks.

Spock made a keening noise, a sound which strangled into a gasp as Kirk's fingers probed at his opening. That helpless sound sent another jolt of desire through Kirk's cock. He'd fucked Spock in the House of Flowers, but this was different, not the surprise gift of a customer to a prostitute, but an offering of need. Of love.

He carefully inserted one finger and Spock pushed back, accepting it easily. Withdrawing it, he inserted another, and Spock opened to that as well. The third was tighter, but Spock's gasps and tiny cut-off cries were clearly encouragement, not protest. He explored carefully inside, seeking for what human males possessed.

Spock cried out loud as his fingertips encountered it, a round firmness beyond the silken wall. So we're alike, even in this. He pushed against that hardness, as the man beneath him shuddered and gasped. He withdrew his fingers. Spock whimpered in protest, then quieted as Kirk carefully centered his cock precisely at the opening to his body.

Kirk snaked one hand around, and Spock hissed as he closed his hand around Spock's penis. The alien cock was jutting with need, hard as polished wood. Kirk pulled on the cock, root to crown, then rubbed his palm over the tip, smearing the slippery fluid already leaking from the slit. Kirk rolled his palm over that tip, then grasped the cock firmly and pulled his hand back down to the base. Spock made an incoherent sound and thrust against the pressure, then went still as Kirk withdrew his hand. Kirk settled back on his heels and used both of his hands to part Spock's buttocks.

“Yes. Do that,” Spock gasped as Kirk pushed forward into his hole. Kirk was so hard now he was breathless with need; he wanted nothing more than to slam into the body before him, fucking him blind, and yet, some rational part of his mind reminded him that this man had only done this once before. But Spock pushed back, and Kirk breached the barrier, his cock slipping into the well-lubed passage. He thrust forward, and then he was all the way in, his cock singing its pleasure from the pressure and heat surrounding it.

He bent over Spock's back and thrust again, then remembered to reach around and find Spock's cock. He pumped it strongly, in time to his own thrusts, reveling in Spock's groans of pleasure, echoing those sounds with his own moans. 

All around him, when he slitted his eyes open, was a glory of stars, an infinity of possibility, overwhelming in its disorientation. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the pleasure of his body; the hot slick tightness around his cock; the slap of his flesh against Spock's; the solid heat of the needy cock in his hand; the fresh fluid it leaked almost continually; the sharp smell of Spock, his sweat and musk mingling with Kirk's; the slide of the sweat between them as he fucked. 

Spock pushed back against him and thrust within the grip of Kirk's hand. Kirk could feel the gathering sharp tightness in his balls. His cock became impossibly harder, and suddenly there was an impossible echo in his body—for an instant it was he being fucked, it was he arching up to that pinnacle of ecstasy, stunned by the pleasure of the hand pumping his cock. His eyes flew open, as did Spock's, and the starfield spread before them; he could see it through both of their eyes. Their cocks hardened, impossibly rigid now, and then the spasms began, in cock and ass, their hips snapping as they poured out their seed in waves, and in a flash of primal light they fell together into ecstasy, surrounded by stars.

*****

When Kirk woke, the starry display had vanished and they were surrounded once again by the grey metal walls of the cargo hold. He found he was half-sprawled over Spock; when he moved to lie on his back their skin parted with a sticky sound. Spock made a breathy noise and rolled over on his side, wrapping one arm around Kirk's waist.

The couch was narrow, and yet there was enough room for the two of them. Kirk found himself content to lie there and contemplate the alien face so close to his.

The oddly-colored eyelids finally fluttered open. Kirk smiled. “Hello.” Spock returned the smile and Kirk, always tactile, reached out and gently ran his hand along Spock's arm, letting his fingers rest just above the elbow. “For a moment there...” He hesitated, and Spock quirked up a questioning eyebrow. “For a moment there, it seemed as if we were one person.”

“I experienced that, as well.” His lips curved in a smile. “That is the oneness achieved between true t'hy'la.”

Kirk continued caressing Spock's skin, surprised, as always, by its fever heat. Spock was watching him, his expression open, and if the words had not been spoken they still were there. What he saw in Spock's eyes was love—love for him—and even as it felt utterly natural, the gap between his life before that night at the House of Flowers and his life now still astonished him.

Somewhere inside Kirk something had sparked, and it brought pain, as a limb long numb suffers as circulation is restored. Instinctively, he wanted to reject that distant flicker, the fire so long banked he thought it completely smothered, vanquished by the ice he had taken on as his armor. But now that glass ice wall which he had so carefully constructed around himself was dangerously thin, cracking in places, unable to withstand the touch of unfamiliar warmth. 

Spock's eyes, the touch of his mind, had kindled that warmth in Kirk, when he had long since reconciled himself to the cold. Warmth was unwelcome. He was familiar with the heat of passion, quickly ignited, and as suddenly extinguished. He had allowed himself friends, carefully defined in their places; he had allowed himself sexual partners as long as they came unencumbered with love or long-term need. Their faces washed over his mind, the faces of those he'd dared to allow into his life, but nothing beyond, nothing past the furthest edges of whatever trust he was able to grant. 

“Vulcans aren't the only ones to practice—parhavt'hal,” he said suddenly, cautiously pronouncing the unfamiliar word.

“No. They are not. Humans are quite good at the practice as well. They are more deceptive, however.”

“And how is that?”

“They often use the expression of one emotion to conceal another.”

Kirk found himself smiling. His hand traced an arabesque caress on Spock's skin. “It's too dangerous to love.”

“Agreed.” Spock regarded him seriously.

Kirk suddenly laughed. “Still, I've never hesitated at throwing the dice for any other gamble.”

“I do not gamble.”

“Of course you do. You've been gambling for at least ten years now, betting your life on your skills as a pilot.”

Kirk pulled him into an embrace, and playfully licked one eartip. Spock squirmed, and he laughed.

“Let's go shower. Can you play poker?”

“Yes. Daniel and Sarah taught me this skill.”

Kirk stood, the metal floor of the hold cold against his bare feet. He grabbed his clothing. “Let's give it a try?”

*****

Kirk settled back in the luxurious splendor of the Captain's bed. Whoever had previously commanded the Nighthawk had abandoned the ship's Spartan simplicity when it came to the furnishings for his own quarters. The main room was huge. The bed was big enough for four, and was decked out with luxurious sheets and coverings. A baroque sideboard, manufactured as an integral part of the wall, gleamed with golds and bronzes. The sideboard was currently littered with elaborately-formed dishes which held the remains of their meal—a feast they had concocted to test the limits of the ship's fabrication capabilities.

Kirk rolled sensuously against the bedding and grinned at the curtains, rich with metallic threads and fantastic patterns. He stretched out against several of the many pillows. “If the rest of the ship was decorated like this, it would make a great bordello.”

Spock, dressed in a plain robe and seated at a desk, was concentrating his attention on a computer screen. Consistent with everything else in the overly-decorated room, the monitor was set in a fancifully decorated casing featuring winged naked women. He turned and raised a brow. “That is not a business I have contemplated entering.” He paused, and Kirk smiled at the serious expression that crossed his face. “However, if this is your desire...”

Kirk jumped to his feet, grabbed one of the nearby chairs, and shoved its surprisingly heavy bulk to where he could sit by Spock's side. “That's my past. I want to think about the future instead.”

Spock turned to face him. “We do need to discuss the future.”

Kirk contemplated Spock's serious gaze. What emotion was Spock concealing? His face revealed nothing, and Kirk didn't attempt to use his newfound sense of the other man to read his mood.

He needed to get this issue out in the open. He had made a commitment to this man—but not to his Family. Not to his life. He was already itching to move, to take some action.

Spock shifted, and Kirk recognized sudden tension in the thin shoulders. 

“I have to go back to Tarsus.” Kirk kept his voice calm and gentle.

“I know.” Something flared in Spock's eyes. He glanced at the monitor. “I have calculated two courses back to Tarsus: one from here, one from Arkus.”

“Why two?” Kirk asked.

“Because we have decisions to make. I had thought...” He contemplated his steepled fingers. “I had thought to offer you a life with my family—either on Arkus, or on the Zeus.”

“I wouldn't have a place there.”

“A place could be found for you.”

“Would my particular skills be in demand?” Kirk heard the heavy irony in his own voice, but if he'd expected a reaction of shame or shock from Spock, he was disappointed.

Rather, Spock raised one eyebrow, a gesture which Kirk fond oddly endearing. “You are an able administrator,” Spock pointed out. “Rilka spoke highly of you. The House of Flowers is a well-run establishment. I have no doubt that that is due to your ability to organize and direct a business. Additionally, you plotted and funded a revolution.”

“A failed revolution.”

“You clearly have not given up on your plans. You wish to return to Tarsus.”

“I owe it to my friends—if they're still alive.”

“And if they are... What will you do then?”

“Regroup. Make new plans.”

“The odds are against you.”

“The odds are against you, as well. I don't see where that ever stopped your work.”

“That is true.” Spock laced his fingers together and settled them in his lap. “Why did you try to overthrow Kodos?”

“Why do you do your work?”

“I have already explained that to you.”

“Aren't our reasons the same?” Kirk heard the low edge of pain in his voice, and for a moment, as clear as the room before him, saw the bright river of blood in soiled snow. He drew in a deep breath. “From what you've told me of your father's people—of a people who use their resources to explore, to seek out and meet new types of people in peace—you've given me a new reason to go on. My friends—the ones who helped me against Kodos—we felt there was something more that humans could be, something we could achieve. I always had a vision of the way things could be—of making true what my father only dreamed of. Sometimes, late at night, I'd call myself a fool for believing any of my ideas could ever happen. But you've given me a glimpse that all of this is possible.”

“You will need a pilot.” There was a look of hard determination in Spock's eyes.

“I'm not asking this of you. This is my fight.” 

“No, Jim. This is our fight. As you pointed out, it is no different from what I have been doing all these years.”

Kirk searched Spock's face and saw complete assurance there. Then, by newly-forged instinct, he searched the connection between them. Spock. My companion. In everything. A smile broke out on his face. “All right.” 

Spock reached out one hand, two fingers extended, two curled beneath the palm. Kirk copied the gesture, enjoying the heat of Spock's skin warming his own. “You said you had plotted two courses. Why two?”

“It was your choice. If you did not—” Spock swallowed, “—wish for me to accompany you, I would have taken you directly to Tarsus and left you there. Now, we shall return to Arkus. There, we must decide, with Daniel, what the future of this ship will be. Daniel owns one third of it. I will propose to him that you and I purchase his share.”

“I don't have any money.”

“We do have what is left of the dilithium crystals. It will be enough. If Daniel is willing.”

“If Daniel is willing...” Kirk settled his hand over Spock's. “What if he isn't?”

Spock was silent, and Kirk felt deep pain flare within him. “You find him difficult. Everyone does. But he—he is my brother, or as close to a brother, in your terms.”

“You grew up together.” Kirk thought of the family ships Spock had told him about.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about him—what it was like, then.”

Spock focused his gaze on some absent distance. “When a new planetary system was discovered, the Kon Tahr would spend some time making observations—sometimes we would spend many months in one system. My mother fostered Daniel, after his parents died. Leora—she who became his wife—was also being raised on the Kon Tahr. Her parents were both human, and had been good friends with Daniel's parents. They found traveling on the Kon Tahr an unprecedented opportunity to follow their scientific interests; and in addition, the planetary resources that were identified have helped the Grayson family immeasurably since that time. We stayed many months on each world we visited, exploring and cataloging every detail before moving on to the next.”

“There was so much contact between humans and your people—but what was the plan? When your people returned home, would the humans have gone with them?”

“It would have been each person's choice.”

“Was life all pure scientific inquiry?”

A tiny smile lit Spock's mouth. “No. The four of us—Daniel, Leora, T'Pring and myself—did a great deal of what we termed scientific research expeditions on these worlds. We were given, at a young age, a planetary aircar for our use, and much of our... research... involved the discovery of the speed to which that craft could attain, as well as its maneuverability. We particularly enjoyed testing the latter in the canyons of Levitharo.” 

Kirk grinned at Spock's memories. “Who was the best pilot?”

“T'Pring. She derived great pleasure from flying. She would focus all of her attention on the ship's controls, and it was as if her will, and her hands, and the ship were one being. No one could pilot a ship as well as she.” 

“You still miss her.” Spock looked down, and Kirk kept his voice gentle. “You were going to live alone for the rest of your life.”

“I did not expect to survive as long as I did.” He looked up at Kirk, the ghost of pain marking his features. “When I survived my next pon farr—I had not thought to bond again. I was with family. Why desire the impossible?”

“Why not desire the impossible?” Kirk grinned. 

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “Indeed. And if you—if we succeed in overthrowing Kodos, what then? Do you wish to be ruler of Tarsus.”

Kirk shook his head. “No. There are many there who would be more qualified to develop a new society. Pike was always the philosopher among us. Let him do it…. If he’s still alive. If anyone is still alive…”

Spock broke the sudden uncomfortable silence. “If you succeed… what would you want to do next?”

“What you've been doing. Trade. Rescue work. We could do so much with this ship... And if we have any time at all, we can... go exploring.” He took Spock's hand, caressing the web between thumb and forefinger, savoring the small gasp of pleasure Spock permitted to escape. “You can show me the iridescent nebula of K'tharu. . .” He allowed his fingers to creep inside Spock's robe and slowly moved them upward, circling his fingertips in the chest hair he found... “...the Thousand Moons of Dö'orýv. . .” He encountered a taut nipple and pressed it between thumb and forefinger. “...the winged people of Ñòykl....” Spock's eyes had gone dark with passion.

Kirk tilted his head toward the big bed. “Let's go get some use out of that.”

Spock followed him eagerly.

*****

Spock awoke to a sense of well-being. The room had fallen into semi-darkness, per his verbal request. He lay there, peacefully enjoying the warmth of his t'hy'la's body close against his own. The pungent odor of their mating wafted pleasantly from their bodies and the sheets and coverings of their bed. He let the information from his senses soothe him into a half-doze.

He felt the brightness of Kirk's mind as the other man shifted in his sleep; he turned and snuggled himself against the other man's body. Home. The table was so large; he saw his mother's hands offering him a bowl. An enticing scent drifted from the steam rising from the soup. His mother smiled. Then suddenly Gary was there, with him, only his home had vanished and he and Gary were doing sixty-nine, right there in the big bed in the room at the top of the tower, where anyone could walk in and see them. What if Kodos comes in? He wanted to pull away, tell Gary no! but Gary's mouth was on his dick and ecstasy destroyed thought. Then suddenly the tower wall broke open, destroyed by phaser fire, and Kodos was there, standing somehow in the air outside, watching every move they made, finger tracing the hard metal of a laser-knife. He fell—

And Spock gasped awake, even as Kirk did, sitting suddenly upright, turning to face each other in the same instant.

Kirk shuddered, and Spock caught him in a close embrace. Kirk leaned into him for a few seconds until his breathing calmed, and then he pulled back.

“You were dreaming of a lover, and of Kodos,” Spock whispered.

Kirk's eyes glittered in the dimness. “Yes.” His hands, still resting on Spock's shoulders, pulled back. “You were sharing my dream.”

“Yes.” Spock swallowed at the complexity of the emotions radiating from his t'hy'la. “That gives you discomfort.”

“Yes.” 

Silence lay between them for a moment. “I must show you what all my father's people know—how to shield your thoughts.”

Kirk stared at him for a moment. “Is that how you protected yourself from Selene?”

“Yes.”

“Show me now.”

Kirk flinched as Spock touched his face, but almost instantly leaned forward again. One of his own hands came up, his fingers automatically forming the same position as Spock's fingers, pressing Spock's hand more intimately against his face.

“Choose.”

Kirk heard Spock's voice, clearly, though the man was now an invisible presence and he was alone in a featureless dark.

“I don't understand,” he said, but he did, and then he could see Spock clearly, standing just a few feet away, regarding him solemnly. They were still alone in a void, emblazoned in a light that encompassed them alone, but then the light expanded and they were standing on solid ground. Kirk didn't need to glance around to know he was back on his family's farm; everything was familiar around him, and safe, in a way things had been safe before he had understood too much about the world. 

Spock was watching him expectantly. 

He suddenly recalled his purpose. “How do I do this?”

“You already have. You've taken it from my mind and already made your barrier.”

“But there is nothing between us.”

“Step forward.”

Kirk did, and found himself up against a flat invisible barrier. The light was clear and bright; he could see every detail of Spock's face. He explored the obstacle with his hands, smooth, as neutral to the touch as air, and yet as solid as steel.

“If you want this between us, then it is there.”

He felt it now, the separation, the aloneness, the sensation of being himself, alone, as he had lived his entire life. It was no longer enough.

“If you do not want it—”

It was gone. One instant, his fingers had pressed against an unseen smooth solidity. The next—

His hands fell forward, and Spock's hands were there to grasp his.

And they were both still sitting, facing each other in the middle of the huge elaborate bed, their hands intertwined.

Kirk's heart was thudding rapidly, and Spock's face was tinged a slight shade of green. Spock squeezed Kirk's fingers and then released his hands. “It is there when you wish it, and it is gone if you don't. You can trust your instinct to know when you wish this.”

Kirk shook his head. “It's all so alien. And yet...” He could feel it inside himself now, as familiar to him as his own breath, the feel of his hand against his own skin. “And yet it's as if it's always been a part of me.”

“Humans are capable of much that only needs to be awakened.”

Kirk grinned, suddenly feeling capable of anything. “Let's go then. Back to Arkus. And back to Tarsus. I have a feeling that together we can do anything.”

*****

“That's it, you bastard.” I'd lasersawed through the trunk of the biggest fallen tree, and threw the pieces into the antigrav mulching unit I'd brought with me. That unit needed fixing, too; it was making bubbling popping noises, louder than usual. Well, let Scott see to it. Or Spock. Or someone who likes doing work like that.

I wished I had a good strong oldfashioned ax. Something sharp, something I could use to hit hard, see the wood breaking apart, with all the splinters and smaller chunks left to cover the ground.

I stepped forward and tackled the next piece. A storm had rattled through here last night, and there were downed branches all over the path to the guest cabins. I sliced it into smaller segments, then tossed the lasersaw aside and began throwing these pieces into the mulching unit.

Sarah had told me I might as well make myself useful, so I picked this task as something likely to keep me as far away from everyone as possible. I just didn't want to listen to it, listen to the gossip, because it would be all about Kirk. And Spock. Where they'd been. Their plans. Their stupid, dangerous plans.

They'd showed up at dinnertime last night, back from their little jaunt to wherever. I'd been halfway through a huge portion of Solea's roast chicken when they came in, but I couldn't stomach eating any more of it once they began talking. All eyes had gone right to them. People began asking questions, and soon they began singing the praises of the new ship, its beauty, sweetness and speed. And then people began asking other questions. Kirk kept talking, and everyone got quiet as he told them about his ideas. I have to hand it to him. He could con a con artist.

I had to leave then, to keep from smashing Kirk's face in. And when Spock came to me later that night, and made his offer to buy the Kon Tahr from me, I'd agreed, and then walked away. Because I wanted to smash his face in, as well.

Well. Look who was coming down the path. Without Spock. For once.

I planted myself right in the middle of the path. “You know, Jim, I wonder if I missed anything, not having you suck my dick? But you're just a 2-credit fuck. I like a better class of whore than that.”

His eyes narrowed; his smile was threatening, but his voice was mild. “I always charged more than that.”

“I didn't know Flowers like you could take the outdoors. Little man.”

He took a step closer to me, looking up into my face. His hands were clenched into fists. “Just what are you so angry about, Daniel?”

“That's my ship you're joyriding in.”

“It's Spock's too.” He paused, judging me. “And mine.” 

Rage flared. I hit him—hard. Or tried to. And suddenly found myself on my back on the ground, my legs kicked out from beneath me, his forearm pressed to my throat. I twisted, rolled, landed a punch in his gut, another to his jaw, and sprang to my feet. He was on his as well, breathing hard. Sweat had beaded on his face. His eyes held fire and he was grinning.

He feinted, I did too, and we circled warily. I saw his move as he made it, but somehow he managed a kick, right to my jaw. My head rocked back; white sparks shot across my vision, but I sidestepped his next blow. I got in another punch but my fist hit the bone of his shoulder, and I felt the skin on my knuckles break open and bleed. I aimed a kick at his crotch, but he wasn't where he was supposed to be, and a massive blow to the back of my knees knocked me forward, face down in the dirt. Air rushed out of me as he landed on my back. One hand closed around my throat, the other grabbed my nuts.

I froze as that hand tightened threateningly.

“I don't give a shit what you think, Daniel. About anything. Just stay out of my path.” He gave one last squeeze to my throat and balls. I choked, not able to scream with my air cut off. He let go and stood up. I rolled to my side, clutching myself, gasping for air.

“Stay out of my path,” he repeated, half-breathless himself. I heard the crunch of his footsteps on fallen leaves as he walked away.

*****

He'd gotten quite good at this, Kirk decided, as he stood back and watched the leaping flames in the guesthouse fireplace. He'd seen the servants do this in Kodos' palace, but work was always clearly delineated there. Everyone had their own job, and no one tried to cross over.

It was good to cross over, to try new things, even ones as clearly commonplace as this. He stood there for a moment, enjoying the warmth on his face and hands, feeling the way the room was warming. Spock would like that. He'd already come to recognize that Spock preferred heat to cold.

And there he was. He was no longer surprised at his instinctive recognition that Spock was approaching. He had deliberately left the artificial lighting off, preferring to have the glow just from the fireplace. In that dim flicker, maybe Spock wouldn't see the bruise on his face. He regretted not having access to the cosmetics and synthskin available at the House of Flowers; something like this was easily concealed. But here... Well, at least they had good showers. He didn't stink like he'd just been in a fight.

The door closed behind Spock. He turned, away from the light, and Spock moved to take him in an embrace.

He stepped back a moment later, frowning. “What happened to your face?” 

“I fell.” Kirk offered the lie. Spock stared at him. Kirk could feel Spock's flare of doubt. He grinned, but he knew it was one of his challenging grins, not a welcoming smile.

Spock clearly recognized that as well. “Jim...” he began, and Kirk could feel Spock's question, like a tendril edging toward his mind.

It was there, between them. Instantly. The invisible barrier, and he was suddenly alone in his mind.

He saw the change on Spock's face—surprise, hurt, and then a sudden respect.

“Would you rather not talk about it?” Spock asked.

“Nothing of any consequence happened,” Kirk said, and this time it was not a lie. He opened his mental door, just the tiniest crack, to assure Spock that there was nothing to be concerned about. The tension drained from Spock's posture.

Spock nodded. “Very well. I just saw Scott. The Kon Tahr will be completely fueled and provisioned two evenings from now.”

Kirk moved into his arms, turned his head up for a gentle kiss. “Are you sure about this? You don't have to go with me.”

“I will go with you.” Spock regarded him in the steady light. “Yes. I am certain.”

He pulled Kirk close, and they spent several minutes just kissing, before moving to one of the guesthouse's narrow beds. Kirk glanced at it and commented, “I liked that big bed in the captain's cabin on the Kon Tahr.”

He could as much feel Spock's smile as see it. “I, too, enjoyed the extra space.”

“Well, in the meantime, let's make use of what's to hand.”

“Agreed.” And Spock pulled him down upon the bed.

*****

The red of Daniel's hair was like a flare in the late afternoon sun. Spock slowed the motorcycle at the unexpected sight and wondered if Kirk, waiting for him inside the ship, knew of Daniel's presence.

He drove the motorcycle until he was a bare four feet away from Daniel, then killed the engine and swung off.

Daniel didn't move from where he was seated on an uncleared boulder next to the landing field. He didn't turn to look at Spock. A lit stimstick dangled between his fingers. He was glaring at the Kon Tahr. “That's my ship.” 

Spock moved to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the Kon Tahr. “Only one third. And you agreed to sell your portion to me.” 

“The deal's not done yet. What if I change my mind?”

“Then we can discuss it with the Council and let them decide.” Spock knew his tone was reasonable, but a ferocious scowl crossed Daniel's face. He finally looked up and met Spock's gaze. His pupils were hugely dilated, clear evidence that he'd been smoking for some time. A purple-black bruise marred his jaw.

“What happened to you?”

“I fell.” Daniel spat into the dirt.

Spock contemplated where he'd heard that before, and decided not to pursue it.

“You're going to die on Tarsus.” Daniel threw the stimstick onto the ground and crushed it with his boot.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Is this truly any more dangerous than what you and I have been doing all these years?”

“You're going right into a trap.” Daniel was on his feet, suddenly bare inches from Spock's face. Spock could feel the heat of his skin, the heat of his anger, could see the incandescent rage blaze in the blue eyes.

He managed to keep his voice calm, even. “That is a risk you and I have taken as well.”

Daniel didn't look away. His face was ugly, twisted with emotion. “Shit. All right, you bastard. Go to Tarsus!”

“Daniel—”

“Fuck you!” Daniel roared. His hands bunched into fists and reached for Spock's throat. His fingers uncurled, remaining taut. His face was unrecognizable. Spock kept himself from stepping back, but lifted his hands, ready to defend himself.

Daniel made an inarticulate sound. He dropped his hands, then abruptly turned away. 

“Daniel,” Spock said again. His hands fell to his sides as Daniel strode away to the edge of the forest, and then through. Branches rustled as he broke through them, and settled in slow degrees back to their normal configuration.

Some last leaves clung to the trees, their oranges and reds dull in comparison to the color of Daniel's hair. Spock watched Daniel's progress as he strode away, moving deeper into the forest. Leaves drifted down behind him and branches bobbed and wove in his wake until their movement obscured Daniel entirely.

Spock's fingers curled into fists. He stood staring out at the interlacing branches of the trees. He was aware of Kirk's presence as the other man approached him from behind.

There were sounds. A gust of breeze set the leaves into brief new embraces. A bird circled in the air, calling out harsh notes. He heard as much as felt the touch of Kirk's hand as it settled on one of his arms.

“I never considered how much I was changing your life.” There was pain in Kirk's voice. A different type of pain.

There were so many types of pain. He found he wasn't able to turn to face Kirk. Something had frozen inside him; keeping at bay a new unexamined pain; a loss quantitatively different from all the other losses he had experienced in his life.

“I do not know what to do about his emotion,” Spock finally said.

A soft breath escaped Kirk. “That's for Daniel to deal with. It's true of us all.”

Kirk's arms wound around his waist and Spock leaned back, letting Kirk support a fraction of his weight. Kirk's warmth and concern enveloped him; exhausted with emotion, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to simply accept that healing touch.

He could sense the bond now, all around them, whole and complete. Still struggling against profound sorrow and an equally profound joy, he shifted forward again then turned within the circle of Kirk's arms. Kirk's changeable hazel eyes were golden-green in the hazy sunlight, bright with compassion and with human love.

He bent forward to kiss Jim, and the human's soft lips met his and parted. He pressed more closely, reveling in this pleasurable human custom. There were tears behind his eyelids, but they did not shed. They kept themselves hidden away, retreating from the joy of his new reality.

Kirk pulled back after a moment. “Shall we go home?” But he glanced toward the ship, not the settlement, and Spock followed him up the ramp and inside.

*****

Everyone keeps invading my privacy. This time it was Sarah, who tracked me down in Joss's cabin, where I was staying for a few days.

She stared at me with her cool blue eyes. “You hurt Spock, you know.”

I was tired of hearing about other people being hurt. “Who went running to you? Spock?”

“It was Jim.”

“Figures. Fancy boy got his feelings hurt?”

“Not for himself.” She looked at me the way she always had when I was a boy, just as if she were my real mother, and I about a foot tall. But her words weren't particularly motherly. “Daniel, you can shape up, or you can just be a petulant asshole all your life. It's your choice. It's not that we don't care. You can have all the room you need. I've been raising your children for these past ten years now; waiting for you to heal, to remember you were a parent. I gave up on that happening nine years ago, when you came back home, and dug a great big hole and dove right into it. So, I'm now more a parent to your children than you have ever been. That's your choice. I wouldn't say anything to you now if the only person you were hurting was yourself. I said all those words, years ago; you didn't give a damn then, you don't now. You may never see Spock again. You know that. Don't you think that's worth a decent goodbye?”

I didn't say anything. She clearly didn't expect me to. She raised her brows. “It's your choice, Daniel. It always has been. Life doesn't give second chances often, but when it does, the smart person takes them. Spock has that chance now. It could happen to you, too.”

She didn't wait for my answer. She walked out the door.

I picked up another stimstick and lit it, and felt the harsh smoke enter my lungs with its freight of solace and energy. The round circle of flame at its tip was hypnotic; I stared at it and did my best not to think at all.

*****

In the end, I couldn't stay away. Oh, I knew when they were leaving. Everyone was talking about it. It was impossible not to know.

I didn't plan to be there. But, after everyone left, I found myself jumping on a motorcycle and following the crowd.

There was a crush of people milling around the struts of the Kon Tahr, encircling Spock and Jim, everyone talking at once, wishing them the best of luck.

Then Spock saw me, broke free of the crowd and walked toward me. Everyone was staring—but they parted to let him through. No one followed, and that left us a space to talk alone. But they still watched. Well, I didn't care what anyone thought, anyway. 

I wondered if he'd hit me. But that wasn't Spock's way. I waited to hear him say—what? Everything Sarah had said? More?

“Daniel.” He regarded me out of his calm dark eyes.

I just stared at him. What was there to say?

He stared at me intently, making no attempt to conceal his concern and sorrow. “I have found the one who makes me whole. I would wish the same happiness for you.” Then, in the human way, he offered me his hand.

I felt as if something were ripping apart inside me. “I—can't.” I was barely able to speak. I hated that. I took his hand anyway.

He squeezed my hand in his. 

I couldn't bear the look in his eyes. “Good luck,” I muttered. 

He smiled. “Thank you, Daniel. Thank you for my life. “

I couldn't stand to stay there anymore. I tore my hand away, pivoted and strode off down the path. Everyone got out of my way.

But at the end I couldn't resist looking back. I was aware that Sarah had come to stand next to me, but I didn't look at her. Instead, I saw the way the landing lights caught Spock and Kirk, dark silhouettes in corona, as they ascended the ramp. For a moment, at the apex of the ramp, the light flooded over them, and I saw the way their hands clasped together. 

They disappeared inside the ship. The door closed behind them.

We all headed back to the waiting transports. I went to the back and sat, unspeaking, as everyone jostled for seats in front of me. All around me was talk, chatter, gossip, speculation. I let it flow over me, not responding. 

Sarah, seated next to me, was silent. But her eyes were on the stars.

When the light arced in the sky over our heads and the Kon Tahr shot up through the atmosphere everyone fell silent. I watched with the rest of them as the ship headed away toward its unknown fate. The fiery contrail faded an instant later; the stars seemed to shine more intensely from its absence. The sound of wind rustling through barren branches seemed suddenly loud in that silence, and then the driver gunned the engine and the transport shot forward over the rutted road. 

Sarah looked at me, but whatever question she held in her eyes I could not answer. I looked up instead, at the stars, and felt the wind rush past my face, the conversation of my family flow past my ears.

The sky was empty now, the contrail gone. The Leda was gone. The Kon Tahr was gone. Spock was gone.

Leora was gone.

“I would wish the same happiness for you,” Spock had said. 

An instant later, startled, I looked down. Sarah, who never touched anyone, had laid her hand on top of mine.

“We'll head back to the Zeus tomorrow.” Sarah's gaze locked with mine. “It'll be good to be back in space.” 

I nodded. Yes. It would be good to be back in space. That's where I belonged.


	5. Tarsus

Lights flickered across the wide monitor, an inconstant, shifting array, dim in comparison to the eerie glow from the nearby transport panel. The woman at Spock’s side frowned at the panel, her fingers dancing quickly over the controls. Dozens of human voices and the audio from a vidcast machine merged into a babble of sound, background to their painstaking work. And yet, through all the noise, he could always trace out one specific voice, distinct from all the others, just as he knew, without looking, exactly where Jim was at all times. 

“There!” She sat back, a fierce grin on her face. He leaned over to see the results. The telltale lights now flowed in several consistent lines across the machine’s glass face.

“Good.” He quickly laid in his programmed instructions, and they shared a moment’s silent triumph.

“Nyta—” Johnson joined them, loaded down with more communications equipment.

“It’s Uhura!” she snapped, then offered him a forgiving smile and pointed to a nearby table.

“Sorry,” he said, finding a place for the machinery he was carrying on that cluttered surface. 

Spock re-checked his calculations one final time, then looked back at her. She grinned, and he allowed himself a small smile.

Yes. She was Uhura now, a name she had chosen from a banned Terran language. A name meaning freedom. Beggar’s clothing obscured her body, making her anonymous, nearly sexless. The one time he had met her at the House of Flowers, thin strips of red leather had ornamented her abundant body. Now, on the streets of Loris Town, no one would look at her twice. No one looked at any of them twice. Just a few months after the announced execution of the traitors, the authorities were accepting bribes again. All was business as usual.

The room’s energy changed at a blare of sound from the vidcast. He looked up as Jim’s people fell silent; felt their anger as if it had tangible form. 

The Administrator’s new Acting Governor, Benjamin Finney, resplendent in rich clothing, was speaking. It was the usual meaningless propaganda. If the people in this room got their hands on the man who had betrayed their cause he’d be scattered lumps of dead flesh. So many of Kirk’s compatriots dead now. Rilka, Decker, Pike. So many. All because of Benjamin Finney.

Spock moved to stand by Jim’s side. He touched his arm. “Jim. We are ready.”

That statement broke Jim’s taut-wire tension. Turning his back to the vidcast screen, he walked over to Uhura’s equipment. 

“We are locked on target. At my signal, the Kon Tahr will fire upon Space Central’s power grid and the Administrative Complex. At the same instant, Uhura will disrupt all planetary communications. Then—” he nodded toward the transport panel Spock had spent the last several months re-creating— “we transport to Secondary Control, overcome their personnel and take command of the planetary defense system.”

Spock looked around the room full of Kirk’s people, each one of them armed with the Federation’s latest phaser weapons, all from the Nighthawk’s armory. Everyone had turned their attention away from the vidcast and were now focused solely on Kirk.

Kirk grinned, a fierce feral grin. “We’re ready.”

“Yes,” Spock said. “We’re ready.”

Kirk walked among his people. Spock watched as the crowd surged and shifted around Jim, saw how he had a special word for each man and woman, saw the way each person listened, rapt, saw the way their eyes followed Jim as he moved to the next person, and the next. Spock could sense it, the way the energy crackled between Kirk and his followers, like a web that bound them all together, and Kirk at the center of it all. 

Spock thought of the legends he had heard about the kings of Old Earth, their fire and passion as they exhorted their troops into battle. Kirk was one such; even in the dirt and darkness of this abandoned warehouse he glowed with inner fire. He was speaking now, of possibilities, of future achievements, of risks taken and liberties gained. If anyone could accomplish all these things, if any man could create the future he was painting with his impassioned words, it was this man. 

Spock let Kirk’s words wash over him and simply watched, as captivated as the rest of the crowd.

Kirk moved back to them. One last word to Uhura, and he was in front of Spock, looking at him as if no one else existed in the universe, just them alone at this moment in time. “Thank you,” Kirk said. He touched Spock’s fingers, the connection between them flaring strong and true.

The moment seemed to stretch to infinity. Kirk’s eyes became his only reality.

Spock caressed Kirk’s hand, a tiny, subtle movement, certain now of his place in the universe, assured that, no matter what the future held, his home was here, beside this man. “Give the word.”

Kirk turned to face the crowd. “Positions.”  
The crowd shifted from an undisciplined mass into organized groups.

“All right. Let’s do it.”

Spock and Uhura keyed in the final codes. The sensor array immediately confirmed success: massive energy blasts on the two designated targets; the sudden shutdown of planetary communication.

Side by side, Kirk and Spock took the final steps toward the transport panel, phaser rifles in their hands. Behind them, Kirk’s people followed in their assigned positions, weapons at the ready

The transport panel shimmered before them, a thing of mystery, a thing of beauty.

One final shared glance. One final smile. One final touch of their hands.

Energy patterns rippled across the panel’s surface, beckoning. They stepped forward. And through.


End file.
